Terrible but Great
by Sulphur
Summary: They say he was the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. We only saw a madman who was defeated by one man's plots and a teenage boy blessed by prophesy. Voldemort spares Harry's mother and seems to win it all, but with magic, nothing is certain. Can Harry defeat the immortal tyrant, or are some dragons too big to slay?
1. Anything

"Not Harry! Please... have mercy... have mercy... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please I'll do anything..."

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

He could have finished her then. It seemed prudent, but he chose to force her away instead. His powerful Stunner sent her thin body sprawling away from the crib, her red hair eerily like a pool of blood in the dim light.

The violence of the act frightened the boy into silence for a moment, but then it began to scream louder. Voldemort could hear the terror in the child now. It bothered him, somehow, but he pushed the absurd thought aside.

His greatest enemy went silent as he came to stand before its crib. It stopped crying, its wide green eyes staring at Voldemort in curiosity, perhaps hoping that he was his father. He knew he should act quickly before the boy's fool of a mother tried to interfere again, but Voldemort wanted to savor this moment.

"Only a child," said every fool.

They could have their platitudes. Unlike them, he had actually bothered to study the history surrounding prophesy, and he knew that this whelp struggling to stand before him was the deadliest threat Lord Voldemort would every face.

He raised his wand and the child, perhaps sensing his malice, began to cry, this time low and pitiably. It stirred an alien emotion that he was unfamiliar with. He pushed it aside. Lord Voldemort does not pity the weak.

"No! Harry!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light flooded the room. The child's sobbing was cut off. It collapsed abruptly into the soft cushions of its crib and lay there, its lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

The boy's mother shrieked in grief, and as Voldemort stepped away from the crib, she ran to it. She fondled the child as if it still lived and breathed. She did not even acknowledge Voldemort. Her display made him feel absurdly uncomfortable. What was wrong with him?

"Why did you spare me?" she asked, her face streaked with tears. The child was cradled in her arms, its unsupported head pitched unnaturally to the side. Her face betrayed no hint of loathing, but he could sense it in her mind without any active probing.

What could he respond? She was a mudblood. Sparing her would serve no propaganda value. Mercy? He had just murdered her helpless child. He replied with the truth.

"Severus." He was not interested in the explosion of emotion that erupted in her mind and buffeted Voldemort's passive Legilimency. He had no interest in the feelings of weaklings.

Voldemort was barely able to Apparate back to his father's ruined mansion before he collapsed to the ground consumed by pain greater than any he had ever experienced.

* * *

The slam as the door was thrown open was the only sound. His movement so silent that he might as well have been gliding. He entered the room quickly, having seemed to know exactly where to go.

The boy remained quiet beside her, oblivious to his impending doom.

Tom Riddle was much as she remembered him from Hogwarts. A little older and a little more lined. His dark cloak certainly looked ominous, and there was a vague menace about him. He seemed shrouded in shadow, even though his pale face was clear in the candlelight. He held his wand loosely in those uncanny long fingers of his.

"Augusta," he said, with his typical false warmness. "It has been far too long."

"Tom," she said evenly. She too had stood, pointedly blocking the distance between the man and the infant who still remained silent in his carriage. They had never been close, but they had always been polite those few times they interacted. "I see that you have invited yourself in. I hope you are at feel at home."

"Of course. Your hospitality is most welcoming," Tom said. They said he was a psychopath who felt no emotions, but she would swear that she saw pity in his eyes. Pity that he was trying very hard to mask. Cold comfort either way.

"I see no reason for you to be harmed." he said, ending their polite facade. "The boy is a threat, you must understand. It is either him or me."

"I weep for you, Tom." Augusta said scornfully. "Did you offer my son the same choice?"

"He made his own choices," Tom said darkly. "Just as you must." He took a step towards her. Towards Neville.

"The Great Lord Voldemort, slayer of grandmothers and infants," she said mockingly. Her heart was hammering so loud she feared the dark wizard could hear it. Her terror had given her a sense of focus and purpose such as she had never felt before.

"I had hoped that your final words would be a little less tiresome. Pity. I am afraid that none of my servants fancy you." He took the time to look over her critically, smirking at some private joke only he was privy to. She sneered at him as she slid her wand rapidly from her pocket.

"Avada Kedavra!" she shouted, pouring every ounce of hatred into incantation. Voldemort did not even flinch as his conjured snake intercepted it. It swallowed the curse with its gaping fangs before falling limp to the ground.

The second snake caught her in the back of neck. It barely even stung. It withdrew just as quickly as it had attacked and fall to the ground. The venom to effect instantly, and she felt herself in a daze, vaguely aware of the blood trickling from the wound.

Voldemort's Killing Curse was not intercepted.

* * *

"Anything," he had told Albus on her behalf. On this day, she would finally hold him to that.

It had taken nearly a century for him to get access. The Dark Lord was certainly cautious with his most prized artifacts, but Severus had always been his favorite. She would never deny that his privileged position with the ruler was useful...

Too bad it was, at its very foundation, based on her son's murder. She had forgiven him long ago, but she had never forgotten.

She did not know how he convinced Voldemort to lend him the ring. She never asked, and he never volunteered. She was never as skilled at Occlumency has him.

They stood together in their smaller study. The fireplace cast a warm light, but the room was bare and dark. The house elves had cleared the furniture, and it was night. It would not be appropriate to preform the only successful act of necromancy in history in the daylight. "Magic was a lot like a good novel," she had told Severus. "It requires the proper atmosphere."

He had snorted in derision, but he had not argued.

Severus had never been one for grandiosity, but it would not do for Lord Prince, Voldemort's most trusted servant, to live in anything less than magnificent opulence. Lily had never minded. At least he hadn't chosen to move to Walpurgis like most of the other Death Eaters. The capital had its own cold, elegant beauty, but it was not a place for her, who so often felt cold and gloomy without any help. Britain was hardly the most bright and cheerful place itself, but the nights did not last half a month.

She held the elixir in a small flask, the dark red liquid looking and behaving like blood fresh from a wound. It tasted of copper and salt too, and it was never pleasant forcing it down every year. She was glad to be spared it this time.

"You turn it three times," he said, his voice steady. His face betrayed fear as she began to do just that. Perhaps he feared that James would appear alongside his long dead son screaming for vengeance. She did not know if she hoped for that or not. James was such an ancient memory. She turned the ring, her heart pounding louder and her stomach knotting tighter with each spin.

The hairs on her neck stood tall as the spirit appeared before them very near the fire. It was like a shadow, alien and horrifying. Green eyes stared through her as if separated by an endless distance. The child itself was perfectly healthy looking, but its mannerisms were unnatural, and it did not move or react. Its eyes followed her like ghastly beacons of accusation.

Then they saw Severus, and she thought she could see hatred bloom on its face. He stepped back in terror, but the child did not move.

"Give him the potion." he said, his voice edged with fear he was unable to hide.

She was afraid too. The thing was cold and empty. This was not her son. Had this wraith had spend centuries in the some kind of limbo dwelling on its fate. Had it been held back from moving on? It looked at her with alien coldness as she approached, and she shuddered in fear.

"Harry, my dear, it's me, your mum," _who betrayed you and served your murderer for centuries,_ she felt the eyes accuse. Did he know? Did he comprehend? She forced herself to approach. The thing did not move, just stared, its sickly eyes fixed on her own.

"I can give you your life back, Harry. You can have the life you should have had." It made no indication that it had comprehended.. Severus came beside her, and put his arm on her shoulder. He was afraid, she knew, but had steeled himself to do this. It gave her strength.

"Please, Harry, just drink this." she held the elixir out to it. She did not know whether it was her own pleading, or the magic of the elixir itself, but the boy's eyes changed, and she saw the what seemed like purest expression of lust on its face. It held out its arms greedily.

Gilt washed over Lily. How many untold numbers among the dead were there that would never get such an opportunity? Is that all death was? An endless craving for the life that was forever lost. Here she was, ready to risk throwing her own away. Would it be worth it? It was the first time she had ever truly asked that question, and ever truly considered it fully.

Severus saw her hesitation. What was he thinking? She knew he wanted her to forget her lost child, and her desire for revenge. The Dark Lord had given them so much. He had to knew she couldn't. No mother could.

"Give it to him, Lily," he said. "The boy deserves his chance at life, even if he does turn out to be an arrogant prat like his father." Severus said. His bitterness at Lily's first husband had faded over endless years, but it still remained.

Harry took the flask and downed it with the grace of a toddler. At least half of it splashed down his face. He looked even more gruesome for an instant, but the change was very rapid. The blackness dissipated, and the boy seemed cross an endless distance. He became _real,_ and suddenly it was her one year old son screaming his eyes out on the floor, as alive as he was on that terrible evening.

The Resurrection Stone cracked in half with a loud bang that made Lily almost leap out of her skin, and Harry stopped crying.

"So you were right," Severus said. He made to attempt to hide his grief and disappointment.

"How, exactly, am I supposed to explain this to the Dark Lord?" Severus asked the next morning, fingering the ruined ring as they sat in their dining room. Her reborn son making a mess out of his eggs.

Lily had no response for him. She was focused on her long hair, which had turned from red to grey, and was whitening by the hour.. Her skin, smooth and eternally young just the evening before, had rapidly managed to shrivel up and yet sag at the same time, making her look like an blotchy albino raisin.

Severus had made no comment about this. What was there to say? Her own death was easy to explain away. The other Death Eaters had always loathed Severus' "mudblood pet" and her influence at court. The ring was wholly unexpected, and much harder to explain away.

"How am I supposed to raise your brat for you when I'm dead, Lily?" he said. His anger rose to the surface, and Lily was jolted out of her own thoughts, a hazy mix of melancholy at her fate, and elation as her own son happily smeared yolk and sausage grease over his grinning face.

"It still works, doesn't it? Your dear friend Voldemort will surely forgive his favorite." she said, her tone equally angry.

"I helped you bring the brat back to life. You can't hold that over me anymore, Lily. I paid my debt." His tone was softer now. "Will you not help me?"

He was right, of course. If she could spend centuries plotting her revenge against her son's murderer, surely she could help the man who, for all his faults, had been there for her.

"Maybe I can ask Albus, and he can convince one of the other Councillors to repair it." Severus considered the idea.

"We can't. The Dark Lord does not trust Albus fully," _for good reason. _"It would be too great a risk."

"Then it seems your only option is to plead incompetence. You won't be the first person to screw up in his service." she said.

"It is not a matter of competence. It is about trust. The Dark Lord will have reason to be suspicious of me, however small. I will lose his absolute confidence. You do recognize that his trust is the _only_ reason this plan can work at all, correct?" Severus' tone was even, but she knew he was reminding her that she needed him.

"Severus, you know I don't see you as some tool to be used." she said knowing how self-serving it sounded. Harry had begin to cry. She stood up, abandoning her own uneaten meal.

"People are going to _die_ because of this boy. The entire world could be torn apart if that prophesy still holds true."

Lily knew where this was leading. She picked her son up, and the boy quieted.

"Who, Severus? Who has to die to protect Harry?" She dreaded his answer.

Severus sighed, at least trying to pretend that he actually felt any empathy for his – _their _victim.

"I don't know yet. Somebody has to take responsibility, though. The Dark Lord will not just accept that one of the Deathly Hallows was damaged. He will hold someone responsible, and that person will suffer greatly." Severus said. His eyes bored into hers accusingly. Harry seemed to think it was a good idea to grab her nose.

"You enjoy the idea of me getting my hands dirty far too much," Lily said, smiling sadly.

Severus managed a smirk despite his grief.

"It's better to try to be a good person and fail sometimes than to not try at all. I hope you teach Harry that, if nothing else." He laughed bitterly, and she mentally prepared herself for another tired, cynical rant.

"Your hopeless optimism has always been endearing." He paused, looking a lot like he tasted something unpleasant. "It is what I admire most about you."

"Love you too, Sev."

* * *

He waited until the day term ended, arriving only minutes after the Hogwarts Express pulled out of Hogsmeade. Albus knew it was him the moment he approached the gates.

Albus loathed magic at times like these. Why? Was there no justice? Albus knew he was no avatar of righteousness or goodness himself, but he had always held out hope that magic itself had some benevolence. Yet here it was, favoring a Dark madman who made Gellert seem like a champion of righteousness.

Tom stood on the path before the Hogwarts gates, his long black cloak billowing in the heavy wind. His hood was down, and his pale face was an expressionless mask. A handsome man, Albus had to admit even now.

His fine features were framed by his dark hair. His face was becoming lined, but his dark hair had not a single bit of grey. His dark eyes found Albus's, and he smiled his trademark charming smile.

"Albus! It is good of you to finally come down to see me." Lightening flashed, and the cold iron of the gate was for an instant the only dark thing, a regular pattern against the younger wizard's visage. "It is dreadfully miserable out here, don't you agree?"

"Every day is dreadfully miserable for you, Tom," Dumbledore said coldly, glaring.

"Albus, please! You misunderstand me." Tom said, his pained, wounded expression so obviously fake. "I have no desire to harm you or your students, Albus. You know how much I loved Hogwarts."

"I am sure Myrtle would be eager to vouch for you," Albus said. In truth he rather doubted she actually knew who her killer was.

"A shame, that, yes," Tom said, his voice unconcerned. "She was weak, Albus. You know that as well as I. It was a mercy."

It was the wrong thing to say to the brother of Ariana Dumbledore, but Tom could not know that. Albus suppressed his rage. "How can you expect me to capitulate to one who so casually discusses murder, Tom?"

The younger man smirked. "Yes, Tom. That is my name. Why should I, the most powerful wizard ever, blessed by prophesy, be ashamed of my name?" he laughed his high cold laugh.

"You are so proud of what you have done, Tom. You make it seem like murdering children is your greatest accomplishment." Albus allowed the contempt to slip into his voice, but Tom was unperturbed.

"You should be proud, Albus," he said. "I spared the Potter boy's mother. She was all ready to sacrifice herself for him too. It was Severus, really. I figure he deserves his little mudblood pet, so I blasted her out of the way instead."

"And murdered her boy," Albus finished. He knew his moral indignation was pointless, but he was unable to stop himself. "The mercy of Lord Voldemort is endless."

"That's right, Albus. I murdered the screaming little whelp. I'd do it a thousand times while both you and his poor pathetic pleading mother watched." Voldemort paused, smirking maliciously. "Fine witch, I must admit. I do hope Severus enjoys himself."

Albus could barely contain his revulsion. He had taught Tom for more than half a decade and had always suspected the boy's true nature, but it had all been rather academic before that moment.

"I respect you, Albus, even feared you before today. You know magic I've never conceived of. Whatever you may think of me, I have no intention of seeing the world burn now that I hold it in the palm of my hand. I've won, and you are no more a threat to me than that Longbottom whelp's brave, idiot father was."

"You are so confident in the prophesy, Tom. I thought you had more sense than that."

"You cannot mislead me, Albus. You know as well as I do that prophecies always come to pass. It is in the interpretation where problems occur. My prophecy is crystal clear." Albus was taken aback by the younger man's certainly. Whatever doubts Voldemort had, they were very small.

"Will you join me or not? Perhaps you can reign in my darker impulses, Albus. How about that?" Were it not for Tom's utter absence of humanity, Albus might have thought him like Gellert in that moment. It made his heart ache.

"You know I cannot, Tom," Albus said. He looked at his former student sadly.

"Albus, please. Do not let your foolish conception of morality get in the way of doing what is truly right. You can join me now, and help shape the world I create, or you can hold to your principles, and leave the world to me alone. It is not betrayal to do the right thing." Albus was loathe to admit that his point was valid. If Voldemort was truly unbeatable, it _would_ be for the greater good to just join him. He would rule with or without Albus' aid.

Nurmengard, with its ominous banner, floated in front of his mind, competing with Gellert's smiling, mischievous grin as they dreamed of the Greater Good together.

"You are an empty person, Tom. One act of mercy does not change that. Might does not make right, and if you were truly a worthy ruler, you would realize that." It started to rain, thick drips spattering against himself and Tom, filling the world with their cacophony of puttering and pattering on the now muddy ground.

"So be it," Tom said coldly, raising his wand. His face was filled with malice.

"Expulso!"

It seemed as if lightning had hit. The gates shattered with a deafening bang that set Albus' ears ringing. White hot iron flew outward as if a muggle bomb had gone off. Only complex, passive defensive enchantments prevented Albus from being shredded by the shrapnel. A thousand years of protective magic was shattered in an instant. Lord Voldemort strode past the now absent wards onto the Hogwarts grounds.

"Avada Kedavra" Voldemort shouted forcefully. Dumbledore had expected this, the fragmented remains of the boar that had stood sentinel over the gate for centuries leaped from the left column to intercept the curse. He also knew that the it was a distraction.

His fire rope caused a trail of steam as it cut through the rain, its bright orange glow absurdly bright against the storm cloud gloom. It severed the rather large cobra that Voldemort had conjured behind him with a hiss. The two halves fell to the ground to writhe momentarily before disappearing.

He brought the rope around and lashed it at Voldemort. At the same instant now now one-winged remaining boar leaped at Voldemort. He could see the momentary panic in his opponent's face.

Voldemort's blasting curse shattered the gargoyle, and his conjured gush of water shattered the rope, breaking Albus' spell. He could not intercept the stone shrapnel from the boar fully however, and Albus could see that he was injured. Blood began seeping from several deep wounds.

Voldemort snarled in rage. "Crucio!" It was not a spell meant for dueling, but the intensity of it was enough to break Albus' shield. It knocked him off his feet, and the pain overcame him for crucial instants before he fought it off.

Voldemort had pressed his advantage, and the snake was already coiled around Albis. Its sleek, dark skin was cool against his arms as its head hovered silently inches from his face, its tongue flicking in and out of its closed jaws.

"It's over, Albus. You can't win. Save yourself, you old fool. Save yourself and live to fight another day." Again he sounded so much like Gellert, but so very different in intent. Albus would be his trophy, not his equal. The greatest servant a man could ever hope to have. It reminded him, rather absurdly, of a muggle film that had come out the summer before.

Flame flashed, and the snake spit and writhed as Fawkes tore at it, lifting it briefly off the ground before flinging it away from Albus. He was ready, and took advantage of Voldemort's momentary surprise to cast a spell of his own. One of great power and potency.

It hit Voldemort square in the chest with such intensity that it seemed the man should have been knocked off his feet. Dumbledore was already at his feet.

Voldemort laughed, his high, cold voice full of genuine mirth. "Only a self-righteous old fool like you would give up such an opportunity to destroy your enemy. You're too late, Albus!"

Albus felt his heart drop. It had been his once chance. Was magic truly so cold? Had Tom been right all along? Might makes right? Was he really just a fool clinging to useless ideals?

Voldemort's voice was mocking now. "All the poor freaks and weaklings. Such a terrible tragedy! I've been a very bad boy, haven't I? It must be so galling to know that I've won."

"If you truly were able to feel love, Tom, you would not say such things." Dumbledore said.

"You think _feelings_ are what keep people decent, Dumbledore? Such a fool. It is fear. Not love, not friendship, and certainly not platitudes and lies. Fear and self-interest bind this world together."

Dumbledore understood now why Tom reminded him so much of Gellert, when he never had before. Voldemort had always been cold and empty, however brilliant. He still was empty and cruel in a way even Gellert never had been, but deep down, something _had_ changed in the man.

"What have you accomplished with your doddering and oh so humble facade? Oh, that's right, you handed Britain to me on a silver platter. I do appreciate it, Albus." Voldemort's mocking smile was insufferable.

"You say that because you are empty, Tom. Too empty to even feel remorse. I had hoped otherwise, truly my boy." Albus feared his own impending death, but he feared the world he would leave even more.

His felt his resolve strengthen. It would be worth it even if all he could hope to do was delay this madman's plans a little.

The phoenix appeared in front of Voldemort in a flash of flame, and slashed cruelly at Voldemort's eyes. At the same time the stone fencing ripped out of the grass as if alive and swept toward him. Voldemort was struck point blank. The hard stone flung his thin figure away like it was not even there and likely shattering every bone in his body. Fawkes was also struck, bursting into flames at the impact. _I'm sorry, old friend._ The gate itself splintered into stone fragments as soon as Albus ended the transfiguration.

Voldemort's body did not move.

Pain exploded, and his left leg was suddenly no longer able to hold his weight. He only just managed to keep his feet. The Bone Breaking curse. It came from behind him. Where Voldemort's body should have been, there was now a small garter snake.

"Expelliarmus!" His wand flew from his hands into the spider-like fingers of Lord Voldemort as he fell to the ground, his shattered leg grinding painfully as it bent at an awkward angle. His long beard twisted and fall over his face, and the muddy ground kissed him with its rough, nauseating embrace. He felt his robes eagerly soaking up the frigid rainwater. He did not try to raise.

The killing blow never came. He heard Tom's boots crunching against the mud as he approached, then felt his head lifted as his damp hair was grabbed roughly. Tom's pale face came into view, his face triumphant. Blue eyes met red, and his head exploded with pain.

_A young women, her long blonde hair tangled around a slack face. Her unmoving eyes stare wide and blind at him, and his heart is filled with emptiness._

_Shock, denial, and horror all mixed into one, but also, faintly, acceptance, on the face of an old friend. He is bound and wandless as he is dragged away to a prison of his own making._

_An explosion of pain as his brother's fist connects with his face. He doesn't try to avoid it. It will hurt less than grief and self-loathing._

_A terrifying pale child with powers even he marvels at speaking in a cold, empty voice._

_A pathetic young man who made all the wrong choices begging for his lost love. He feels pity and contempt, but also understanding._

_The parchment, titled Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood, unlocks secrets of magic that wizards before him have only partially understood._

_He looks at his empty trophy. A dark, exotic stick, said to be greater than all others. It seems to approve of him, and finds him worthy. Even after everything this still makes him swell with self-satisfied pride._

_A brilliant blond wizard with an enchanting foreign accent spinning tales of glory and power and the Greater Good._

_A green-eyed infant with his equally green-eyed mother pleading for his help. Her young husband is trying so hard to keep his own fear and desperation hidden._

_An older version of himself, shackled and silent, as accusations are read against him in the Ministry of Magic. His mother sobs bitterly beside him._

_A wretched women who is somehow a fraud and true at the same time speaks in an absurdly self-important voice just a few short sentences that would damn the entire world._

_A flash of flame, and a creature more beautiful than anything he has ever seen flies from the fire. It is crying. Perhaps life is not so empty after all._

"I have seen your heart, Albus Dumbledore, and it is mine," Tom whispered as he shared a memory of his own.

_A dark ring with a black stone. Its mysterious symbol is finally revealed for what it is._

* * *

"Get up!" Snape pounded on his door. "Get up, you useless brat."

Harry rolled over, groaning in annoyance as his guardian continued his ceaseless assault. The old bat would not give up, he knew. Severus Snape, chief Enforcer of the Dark Lord, did not take any disobedience from anybody, much less his useless, good-for-nothing great-great-great-great-grandson.

That was a little unfair, he knew. Snape had always made it clear that he was his _guardian_, not his father, but the man treated him well enough, especially considering his reputation. Harry certainly wanted for nothing in life, living in obscene opulence even by wizard standards. His room was larger than many muggle homes, his bed could fit several grown wizards, and his room had its own balcony overlooking the gardens that his mother had tended when she was alive.

His robes, a deep rich dark blue embroidered with the Prince Family crest, were equally extravagant. Pictures of his mother, some with Snape, were set on the wall. Snape had even given him a photo of his father, but had demanded Harry that it never been shown to anyone. Harry had been fascinated at the clear loathing on his guardian's face while looking at the photo. Snape had never mentioned the man before or since.

Harry was standing before his over-sized mirror made of solid silver trying not to fidget as his House Elf Tinky applied various cosmetic charms that he realized what day it was.

"We is wishing you a very happy birthday, Master Harry," Tinky said, her wide green eyes looking at him earnestly. "We is knowing it is a very special one, yes," she bobbed her head absurdly.

"Thanks, Tinky," Harry said warmly, causing the little creature to beam with pride as it forced Harry's hair flat.

Hogwarts, or the Academy. The choice had loomed over him since Snape had first told him, curtly, of the dilemma faced by all members of the nobility. Hogwarts, where the Dark Lord himself had long ago attended, or the Academy, located in the heart of the empire itself, home to many of the most influential wizards in the world. Harry would receive invitations from both.

Tinky opened Harry's absurdly heavy and ornate door, the iron hinges groaning as they bore the immense weight. Snape stood in front, tall and imposing as ever, his long hair tied into a ponytail. His homely face looked almost handsome and grand with all the contraceptive charms that were put on it. He held several letters.

"You will inform me of your choice at dinner," he said in a tone that allowed no argument. Harry accepted the letters with a sense of awe.

The absurdly unprofessional Hogwarts letter was first, his name printed in lime-green ink in unruly, blocky lettering. It contrasted with the flawless calligraphy of the Academy's letter. This lettering was so perfect as to almost be from a muggle printing machine. The deep black ink was inscribed on a pale grey letter, with an equally flawless seal that somehow had no run in the wax

Harry remembered untold hours of his impatient, anxious tutor forcing him to write lines, his nasally thin voice edged with frustration at his hopeless pupil. Harry had really tried his best, but somehow, when his guardian had taken to joining in his lessons, his hard, black eyes fixed on Harry, he had begun to improvement.

He preferred Hogwarts already.

The fourth letter bore the Dark Lord's seal, the deep green, almost black wax set with a single snake, the crest of his ancient ancestor Salazar Slytherin. The letter itself was white, Harry's name written in an elegant script. This letter he stared at with a mixture of fear and awe.

He had been expecting it. Everyone got a letter from the Dark Lord when they turned eleven, but nobody ever seemed willing to share anything about its contents to him. The Dark Lord had not been seen publicly for over a century, and even the Death Eaters themselves were only granted extraordinarily limited audiences with him.

He broke the seal, his stomach knotting with fear, and pulled the white, clean parchment from the envelope. Something heavy slid out that hadn't been there before, and Harry yelped in pain as the heavy gold coins hit his foot. There were seven in total. All bore the familiar face of the Dark Lord, his twisted, thorny crown set with a large gemstone atop his deformed, serpentine face.

Dear Mr. Prince

It is with great pleasure that I write to you to congratulate you and wish you luck on this day. It is on this day that you begin of your magical journey, and join the great society countless generations of witches and wizards before you have built. You are greatly privileged to have been born with the gift of magic, but you are also burdened with a great responsibility. Will you add to what those before you have built? Or will you work to tear it down, and squander your blessings?

The choice is yours, Harry Prince. Just know that there are no secrets from me. You cannot lie to me, and you cannot hide from me. I am not your grandfather, Severus, and I am not your irritating Latin tutor either. You can hide your misdeeds from them, but not from me.

I know that you snuck out last night with the aid of your elf Tinky to meet your blood traitor friend.

I know that you are the one who placed dungbombs in Draco Black's bed when he falsely accused that muggle of attacking him.

I know that you think your lot in life is rather unfair. You resent me, because it is I who made the world the way it is.

Know this Harry Prince. You owe me loyalty. I demand it, and I do not tolerate those who fail to demonstrate it no matter how noble their blood. Know also that those who are loyal can achieve great things no matter how humble their blood. Serve me well, Harry Prince, and I will make your wildest dreams come true.

PS: Every witch and wizard should have their own wand.

As soon as Harry finished reading the letter, it dissolved into a puff of black smoke. The hairs on the back of his neck stood tall as he reflected on its contents. He knew he would never share it to anybody else. Not ever. The very idea was absurd.

* * *

"Ah, I see that this is hopeless, Mr. Prince. Anyway, Lord Prince tells me that your young friend will be arriving soon. You may as well run along now."

Harry's arithmetic tutor had made only a token show of trying to keep the boy focused on his lesson before giving it up as a bad job. Mr. Burns was an average height serious man with neatly cropped dark hair, but he tended to be friendly and indulgent.

"Yes sir," Harry said, grinning widely. He did not need to be told twice.

Harry felt the mixture of apprehension and delight that he always did before seeing his friend Draco Black. Draco was certainly of respectable bloodline, being a direct descendent of Sirius Black himself. Draco was even the spitting image of his immortal patriarch, but his face was framed with blond curls rather than black, and his face had an odd, pointed quality.

"Hullo," Draco said when he arrived, Apparated directly to the Prince Manor's gardens by his small, fearful house elf. The creature bowed nervously to Harry, its wide brown eyes full of terror, before disappearing again. Draco eyed Harry critically as he usually did, but for once could find no fault in his appearance. "So what did you choose?"

"Hogwarts."

"Of course you would. They would eat you alive at the Academy. Probably sort you into Servus!" Draco smirked maliciously.

"Still better than Slytherin, Harry replied easily.

"You wish, Prince. You're still serious about not wanting Slytherin?"

"If only to piss off the old bat." Draco smirked uneasily, intimidated by the powerful man.

The July air was stuffy and hot, but enchantments forced it to flow through the garden and produce a gentle breeze. The many flowers swayed easily.

"So what do you want to do?" Draco asked.

"Dunno," Harry replied. "Go flying, I suppose."

"Is that all you care about, Harry? C'mon, you're the heir to the Prince family." Harry sighed.

"You sound just like the old bat himself."

"He's right though. Don't you have any ambition?" Harry knew Draco's ulterior motive. Harry, as Lord Prince, would be a powerful ally in court.

"Yeah, of course I do. It's just, I dunno, hard to explain." Hard to explain to the likes of Draco Black, at any rate. "I really don't wanna think about that right now."

"Fine," Draco snapped. His annoyance was mostly feigned. He enjoyed Quidditch as much as Harry did. "Father will be unhappy."

"So will Snape. Never let it stop me," Harry said, now leading them to the broom shed. "Tinky!"

The house elf appeared immediately with a loud crack in front of the boys.

"I need you to get Draco's broom, okay?" Harry smiled at the elf. He ignored Draco's sneer.

"Of course Master Harry, we will do it right away." She said before disappearing.

They reached the broom shed, a small, plain building no larger than an outhouse, and Harry pulled the door open. He pulled out his rather expensive broom.

"I still can't believe Lord Prince bought that for you," Draco said in awe at the Firebolt 1337. "Father makes me use the old Comet 720 while he uses the Numbus."

Harry rather wished he had a father to play Quidditch with in truth, but he did not say that to Draco. Despite his disdain for court politics, he knew full well that showing weakness was never acceptable. Snape had always been rather insistent about teaching him that particular lesson.

"Do you expect my pity?" He asked harshly.

"I'm just saying that your supposed skill may not be so great without your broom," Draco replied easily.

"D'you think that'll work one day, Draco, or are you just mad?" Harry smirked himself, a rare thing for him in truth.

"Coward." Harry ignored him.

Tinky took that moment to appear, Draco's Comet held firmly in her hand. Draco snatched the broom away roughly.

"Thank you, Tinky," Harry said.

"Of course, Master Harry," the elf said, moving to bow.

Draco's foot caught her full in the face, and she went flying backwards onto the stone path.

Harry rounded on him in a rage.

"What's wrong with you?" He demanded, his hands curled into fists.

"Me?!" Draco asked, seeming genuinely incredulous. "Why are you _thanking_ a servant?"

"Why shouldn't it? Why did you kick her?" Harry replied angrily, moving to comfort the elf.

"It needs to know its place. You're too nice to it." Draco picked up a small pebble. "Hear that, elf?"

Draco raised his arm to throw it at Tinky. Harry's rage was blinding. He lunged at the boy, and fist connected with Draco's pointed face. Harry danced away, prepared to defend against the boy's counterattack, but Draco instead collapsed to the ground, wincing as he grasped his now bleeding nose. Harry went to the elf.

"My Father will hear about this!" Draco shouted after him. "You and that old bat will pay!"

"My eye! My eye!" Tinky was muttering under her breath, glancing with fear at the blond boy. Her small hand was clutching at her closed eye. Harry could see a trickle of blood running down from between the closed lids. He tried to comfort the elf, but had no real idea what to do.

Draco began laughing uproariously, a malicious sound full of derision, his bloody nose apparently forgotten now that Harry was no longer a threat.

"Harry and the House Elf, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" He sang out. "You're pathetic, Prince. Just pathetic, just like your dead parents and Lord Prince and his mudblood whore of a wife."

Harry did not particularly care about Draco's insults.

"That will be all, Mr. Black."

Snape was standing behind Draco. The man looked out of place in the sun-drenched gardens, his black robes and blacker hair stark against the greenery. Draco rounded on him full of fear. His face was full of loathing.

He grabbed the boy roughly by the back of his robes and pointed his wand at Draco's face. Draco looked ready to wet himself.

"Episkey!"

Draco's nose healed, and a silent cleaning charm cleared the blood.

"You will leave," he ground out. "Now."

He didn't need to ask twice. Draco's own elf, already summoned by Snape, grabbed the boy and they quickly Disapparated.

Snape rounded on Harry, his face still full of anger. He knelt down to examine to the elf.

"What have I told you about weakness, boy," Snape said, how voice low with rage.

"I wasn't weak!" Harry shouted, his eleven year old voice high and pathetic to his ears.

"Yes, you were. You knew how that boy felt about House Elves. You couldn't feign coldness with Tinky for even a moment?"

Harry knew he was right, but he hated it.

"The Blacks would have been powerful allies. You let your own selfish need to be self-righteous get in the way of doing what is prudent. As usual." Snape was no longer angry, it seemed. His tone had become resigned.

Harry did not respond. He felt rather ashamed now, and fearful. Would Snape send him to the Academy as punishment?

Snape looked at him directly now, his black eyes taking on an almost pleading look.

"You are so like your mother." Harry saw an expression on Snape's face he had never seen before. "That is a good thing, but this is a dangerous world sometimes. She understood the need for prudence. So must you. You must always be on your guard, even when you think you have the upper hand."

He paused, his face taking on a dark look.

"You read the Dark Lord's letter. You know what it contained."

Harry nodded.

"How did it make you feel?" Snape was staring hard into his eyes. Harry thought for a long moment before finally replying.

"Helpless."

"Indeed." Snape nodded curtly. "Some enemies are too great to challenge directly."

He vanished with a loud crack taking the elf with him.

Harry sat there alone, his Firebolt laying on the ground beside him, not knowing what to think. Snape was always quick to tell Harry that he was a reckless idiot who didn't think before he acted. It was a tired back and forth that occurred every time Harry got into trouble.

His last words seemed to be another reminder.

_"Some enemies are too great to challenge directly."_

The opposite was also true. Some enemies are not too great to challenge directly. Draco Black had cowered as soon as Harry resorted to violence. He showed weakness in front of Harry for perhaps the first time. Snape had not only not punished him for his violent outburst, he had not even brought it up. Did Snape actually _approve_ of what he had done?

Maybe he wasn't such a slimy old bat after all.

AN

So Draco Black is an expy for Draco Malfoy. To keep the number of OCs down a lot of characters in Harry's generation in canon will be moved to the future timeline because they played no real role in the First War.

Snape is a bit OOC but I think after hundreds of years with his TWU LUV and being one of the most powerful wizards in the world he would be a lot nicer and less bitter than in canon. He still looks down on Harry for being James' son, but the hatred just isn't there.

He is also the most plausible way for Harry to be brought back to life. How else would Lily get access to the Resurrection Stone and be granted immortality by Voldemort? Whether she actually loved Snape or has just been using him is a question for the reader to decide.

The idea of an immortal ruler doling out Elixir of Life to favored individuals comes from Curse of the Reapers by deanine.


	2. A New Beginning

The dragon swooped low. Its dark hide was like a shadow in the against the evening August sky. Its long, tapering tale snaked lazily through the air as its long reptilian snout focused intently on its prey.

The winged, furry globe feigned a right turn, and the dragon let out a blast of pale blue-white flame that was nearly invisible against the sky. It roared loudly as it turned its large body ponderously in the direction the its target had actually gone.

It was a spectacular sight. Nicolas and his wife Perenelle Flamel delighted in it. Albus himself was easily able to fake his own enthusiasm, but his mind was very much elsewhere.

"This is most wonderful, Albus," Perenelle said, her eyes glued to the spectacle. "I have never seen a dragon in hunt before."

"It is most impressive," her husband agreed. Both their faces showing nothing but delight.

How could two of the most powerful and dangerous sorcerers in the world be so bloody _innocent_?

"It is indeed," Albus said, his false levity so at odds with his inner turmoil. "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves to the trainer after they are done. I believe young Mr. Weasley was a student of mine."

"That would be excellent, Albus." Nicolas said enthusiastically, his eyed glued to the dragon. It scored a direct hit on the snitch. The device's wings, barely visible before, disappeared into ash instantly.

The dragon dove. Its massive body gained speed rapidly as it tried desperately to catch its plummeting prey before it reached the ground. Albus found himself wondered what the dragon would do with it when he caught it, but he never got the chance to find out. The dragon's jaws snapped shut on empty air and the snitch vanished.

The trainers restrained the beast with expert care, each pointing their wand and casting the advanced binding curse in unison. Thick metal chains appeared around the dragon, pulling it to the ground and forcing it immobile. It struggled and growled, a small gust of flame escaping its thin reptilian lips, but the effort seemed almost halfhearted.

The mighty dragon submitted meekly enough as it was led into its large cage by compulsion charms. The trainers, most of them young men, eyed it wearily as they held their wands steady. The cage itself, a massive, skeletal steel pyramid, shimmered from the fire-arresting charms that were woven into it.

"Remarkably well trained." Nicolas said, and fear washed over Albus, but it passed quickly. Nicolas' face showed only awe.

"Indeed. It would not have been safe to release otherwise," he replied. "Ironbelly dragons have a mild temperament in general."

"I thought it was a Horntail." Perenelle said. Nicolas scoffed.

"Goodness no, my dear, they far too dangerous. Completely untrainable." He paused. "More untrainable than usual, at any rate."

Albus felt his anxiety growing stronger, but he forced himself to remain calm. He smiled gently.

"This dragon is perfectly safe. He is being handled by a team of highly qualified Keepers," he assured them. Perenelle looked at him wearily.

"Dragons are very magical, Albus. Nothing is certain with magic. Still, I think I would like to see it closer."

Albus felt himself sigh in relief inside. Nicolas beamed with enthusiasm.

"Yes, let is go and see it. I've always been fascinated by dragons." Albus took the lead, striding casually toward the tent and the penned magical beast.

"What boy is not?" Perenelle said playfully.

Albus smiled a fake smile of amusement. "Aberforth wanted to ride one when he was young."

Nicolas snorted, but Perenelle just looked at him skeptically.

"Not like the great Albus Dumbledore." Albus smiled at that, and it was almost genuine.

They covered the distance to the tent far too quickly, dread filling Albus with every step. Nicolas tried to educate Paranelle on the relative strengths and weaknesses of the Ukrainian Ironbelly while she managed an excellent show of feigned interest.

"Minister," said the supervisor, a short fair-faced man with neatly trimmed dark hair who had emerged from the tent to greet them. "It is an honor to have been able to show you our work." His politeness was in contrast to the weariness with which he eyed Albus and his companions.

Albus took the man's hand. "It was a rather enjoyable spectacle. Your lads certainly know what they're doing." The man smiled.

"A bunch of young fools in truth," he said without any real conviction, "but they do know how to handle the beasts."

Albus hesitated as the man turned to his companions. _He_ should have arrived by now. He improvised quickly, his anxiety growing larger by the second.

"Nicolas Flemming, Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Dumbledore said as the two men shook hands. For the first time in his life Albus was grateful that most people were completely ignorant of politics."Penny Banks, head -"

He was spared the need to make up Perennel's position. The sounds of Apparition were masked perfectly as the dragon's cage burst, but the sudden appearance of nearly a dozen cloaked figures was unmistakable. Their faces were hidden behind hideous masks.

The dragon reared up, slamming its head against the side of the cage, and ambled out. Several tons at least, the large Ironbelly was awkward on its feet. With a rush of blue flame the handlers' tend was ablaze. A shriek sounded from within, and Albus felt guilt knot at his insides tightly.

The cloaked wizards were already all around them firing off curses at the unprepared handlers, their black cloaks contrasting sharply in the midday sun. The handlers were clearly outmatched by the older, more experienced wizards, and were being made short work of.

Nicolas and Perenell had their wands out, but they were pointed toward to intruders. Albus had no trouble casting a quick binding curse on Nicolas. He tumbled to the ground with a cry, and did not seem to realize who had bound him.

Perenell did see, though, and she danced away from Albus' second spell, whipping around to face him, realization quick on her face. She raised her wand to retaliate.

He only had an instant to see the betrayal blooming in her pale blue eyes before the flames consumed her. Her shriek of pain was cut off in an instant as her flesh was turned to ash and her life ended. The dragon lifted off into the air, her remains clenched firmly in its jaw. The charred husk still smoldered and burned.

"A shame," said the high cold voice from behind Albus and Nicolas. "If Albus hadn't stumbled, she may have been spared." Voldemort lowered his wand, releasing the dragon from his control.

The Dark Lord's cloak matched those of his followers, but his face was visible. He came up beside Albus and Nicolas, watching impassively as the last standing handler, a young redheaded man, tried desperately to fend them off. A green curse narrowly missed his arm.

Charley Weasley spotted the broomsticks an instant before his adversaries. They directed their curses to the the brooms, and one went up in a shower of splinters. The boy took the chance to attack, and the unknown curse sent one of his adversaries screaming to the floor. He took the moment to summon the remaining broom, which landed square in his hand.

The boy was only barely able to mount it, narrowly avoiding another green curse. As he lifted off from the ground out of range of his attackers, his eyes turned to Albus, and Albus was just able to discern the comprehension in the young man's mind. He briefly considered cursing the boy out of the air. It would solve so many potential problems. Voldemort smirked knowingly at his hesitation.

"It seems you have failed twice today." Voldemort said without pity as his own red eyes turned toward their captive.

Albus took a knee before his master, his own self-loathing having long since displaced any pride he once had. "I present you Nicolas Flamel."

"You have served me well. Your Gryffindor loyalty is an inspiration to us all." Voldemort smiled widely at his once nemesis' humiliation.

Albus rose, ignoring the mockery.

The Death Eaters made quick work of the bodies. They transfigured them into various mundane objects. With casual waves of their wands, a deep pit opened up. The transfigured bodies flew in, and were covered up again.

The dragon did not return, apparently satisfied with its meal. The sun had fallen lower in the sky and evening was fast approaching. They gathered in a semi-circle, their captive tied tightly to the outside of the ruined cage. The Death Eaters, no threat to Albus or even Nicolas, still made an ominous presence as they stood silent and sentinel around them. Their horrific, pale masks emitted not a sound, nor did they move an inch.

Voldemort approached, his hood down and his face triumphant. The past ten years since his victories over one-year old Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom had not been kind to his appearance. He had grown his inky black hair long, but it framed a white face that had somehow grown less lined with age. His eyes, now a bright red, had sunken into his face, and his nose had grown ever more deformed. Albus wondered if it would eventually disappear all together.

"Nicolas Flamel. I have always wanted to meet you." The ancient man stayed silent. "I am truly sorry for the circumstances." Voldemort's tone sounded very sincere, but Dumbledore could feel the undercurrent of mockery.

Voldemort stared at the man's bowed head for long moments, his rage building. Albus knew that he would lash out soon. He knew he could speak out and prevent it, but fear and shame held his tongue. He was, he reflected, a rather terrible Dark wizard.

Voldemort raised his wand, but his captive spoke.

"So very British," the bowed head said, forcing Voldemort to pause. He smirked.

"So very French, to test my patience so." Voldemort raised his wand again.

"Did your slave not tell you?"

Voldemort smirked widely at that despite himself. Dumbledore forced himself not to blush in shame.

"He tells me everything," Voldemort lied, but only a little. Albus would never forget that chilly, mud-soaked day when fate itself turned on him. Albus was far to powerful for Voldemort to ever hope to control fully, but whatever secrets he had held before that day were shared between them.

"I tire of this," the man said, looking up for the first time, his ageless face filled with grief. "My Perenelle is waiting for me. Give me a reason I should not join her now."

Voldemort sneered. "I am disappointed. I never expected you to be a coward."

Nicolas Flamel raised his head, his long brown hair falling around his smooth, ageless face. Wisdom and youth both seemed to blend together on that uncanny face. He looked past Voldemort, and his brown eyes found Albus.

"Why?" he asked, his voice horse and heavy with disappointment. Voldemort spared Albus the need to respond.

"You will stop wasting my time. Must I threaten you?"

Nicolas' face hardened, still looking at Albus. Albus forced himself to hold Nicolas' gaze, his expression neutral. The man's brown eyes bored into his with fanatical hatred. He wanted to look away. He wanted to run away and hide in some hole and never come out again. Anything to escape the accusing, painful sight. To escape the guilt and self-loathing that was his constant ally.

"He speaks true, Nicolas." Albus said, his voice taking on a compassionate tone. "But it needn't come to that."

Nicolas spat on the floor at his feet. "You think I will _join_ you? You cannot be serious Albus!"

"Your anger will get you nowhere. Your weakness; your complacency is the reason you are in this position." Voldemort looked down on the man, his contempt clear. "Albus is weak too. Like you. And like him, I offer you my mercy."

For the first time, Nicolas turned to face Voldemort, a weary look on his face.

"Do you know how I made the Philosopher's Stone, Lord Riddle?" He looked hard at the man. "Do you want to know the secret?"

Voldemort looked at him skeptically. "Go on."

"I accepted death, truly and completely."

"Spare me," Voldemort replied, his voice sharp. "I am not interested in your empty platitudes."

"I like my platitudes much more than yours, Lord Riddle," Nicolas said. Dumbledore forced himself not to smile at that. "How can you expect people to follow you when you say love is a weakness?"

"Enough." Voldemort snarled, his high voice taking on that fevered tone that indicated that he was angered. He raised his wand, the curse on his lips.

"I do not think that will be necessary," Albus said sternly. Voldemort lowered his wand an inch, staring expectantly at him.

"I am ever grateful Albus," Nicolas said spitefully, also turning to him. "Perenelle and I both counted ourselves very lucky to have known you."

The words cut deep, but Albus did not show it.

"It does not have to be this way." Albus said. "We can bring her back."

Nicolas spat on the ground again. "I have no interest in preforming some Dark ritual to look upon my beloved's corpse."

"Indeed. Better to join her as one yourself." Voldemort mocked, his voice full of feigned resignation, his wand still pointing at the man. "It is useless Albus. Let us send him on his way.

"It would not be a Dark ritual, Nicolas. She would be fully alive." Albus pulled the dark ring from one of his many pockets. The Slytherin Crest had been charmed away, and only the symbol of the Deathly Hallows remained.

"It cannot be..." Nicolas recognized it instantly.

"With your help, we can bring her back. We can bring anybody back." Albus handed him the ring. The black stone looked like shadow made solid in the fading evening light.

"You murder my wife and then try to bind me with the promise of her return?" Nicolas asked rhetorically. He looked from Voldemort to Albus with revulsion. Voldemort was unmoved, and Albus hid his own shame well.

"I planned to eliminate you outright," Voldemort said bluntly. "I have no need of the Stone. My immortality is assured. You can thank Albus for being alive at all."

Nicolas looked at Albus, but this time he saw pity mixed with the loathing. "I am so sorry, Albus." He saw some small sliver of forgiveness in his friend's eyes. "Nothing good can come from working with him. You must realize that."

Nicolas looked at Voldemort, his resolve steady.

"Do what you are best at, Lord Riddle."

Voldemort did not hesitate. The green light was blinding even in the evening light, and Nicolas Flamel slumped to the ground lifeless. The grief washed over Albus, as painful as if it was boiling water, and it took all of his strength to stay stoic in front Voldemort for the time it took to politely take his leave.

* * *

King's Cross was an ancient building. Its sandy stone showed its age with many small cracks serving to make it seem more impressive. Moss and lichens clung to every edge soaking up the warm afternoon sunlight.

The station itself had become a museum long ago where outdated muggle trains were displayed. There was also a very special platform that was not accessible by most at all that held a very special train, and it was this that Harry Prince stood admiring while Severus Snape waited impatiently.

"Why didn't they just use Portkeys?" Harry asked. The bright-red engine looked like it belonged in a children's story. It had a fat, round boiler, a stout chimney, and it's front seemed to give one the impression of a very cheerful, happy face. Had the Volkswagen Beetle been around, Harry might have compared it to one. It rested on a short length of track like a little slice of a world long forgotten

"_Portus_ is a very difficult spell." Snape said. "It is beyond the capabilities of most wizards."

"Did you ever master it?" Harry asked, knowing exactly how insulting it was to even ask. Snape glared at him. "Why did they stop using it?" He could imagine that this train held a special place in the minds of many. It was the first piece of Hogwarts any student would see, and the last as well.

"The muggles destroyed all the tracks," Snape said. The contempt was clear in his voice.

They left the museum to enter the modern station. It was a large glass building, all sleek curves and metal, and it carried the sanitary stench that all muggle constructions possessed. The building itself was empty as they walked through the large ticketing center. Hanging from the roof like stalactites were many destination displays. Harry. who was so used to moving photos, found the black, plastic screens rather unnerving.

"Where is everyone?" Harry asked.

"The muggles are barred from using the station on September first," Snape said.

"What if they need to get to school?" Harry asked.

"That is their own problem." Snape paused, then elaborated. "I do not believe muggles use the train. They have so many schools that local transport is much more suitable."

They entered a moving staircase that seemed to stretch downward endlessly. The harsh, alian glow of LED lights providing the only illumination. The underground station was much the same, with geometric, square rooms and a bland white facade that was broken only by concrete, glass and metal. The gaudy, colorful advertisements that seemed to be everywhere in the muggle world were already starting to fade from Harry's conscious notice.

The place was empty. Muggle booths and kiosks and vending machines remained pointedly unused. Destination signs passed overhead, each with a small waiting room off to the side visible, the many plastic seats empty. Dead, black screens were everywhere, and the entire place was spotlessly clean.

Harry walked in awe as they passed room upon room. Many were filled with hundreds of hard, plastic chairs. He counted more stores and shops than existed in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade combined. Whatever the station lacked in esthetics, it made up for in sheer grand scale.

"Muggles built this?" Harry asked

"They did." Snape said without elaboration. He was clearly unimpressed.

The endless main hall finally came to its end. Harry saw a small, nondescript metal door painted green set into the far wall. A sign, neatly labeled in muggle computer type said "Cleaning Supplies." Snape grasped the heavy metal handle, and pulled the door open with a loud groan of metal-on-metal hinges.

The doors opened into a large, stone-lined circular platform with no roof. That was not true, Harry realized, as he craned his neck upward. The room was actually a tunnel, and it stretched upward so far that Harry could see skylight pouring in from the upper windows. The entire room was packed with witches and wizards in various colored robes. Their children of various ages were about and talking among themselves as they mat with friends they may not have seen since June.

There was also a winding staircase that spiraled down from above, but he suspected that it was very rarely used. Instead Harry spotted dozens of magic carpets slowly lowering down the length of the tunnel from above. Their large area easily bore whole families. Several of the older students rode broomsticks as well, and Harry spotted two redheaded boys who seemed to take particular delight as they darted around angry carpet-riders.

"Ah, Severus, it is good to see you," said a tall, pale man said with platinum hair as he approached. His voice had a haughty edge that made Harry dislike him immediately. The man's ageless, immortal face was fixed in a permanent expression that conveyed both a sneer and a scowl at the same time.

"Lucius," Snape replied curtly. Lucius ignored the terseness and turned his gaze to Harry.

"You must be young Harry," he said paternally to Harry, giving him a calculating smile. "This must be your first year."

Harry glanced at the immortal uneasily. "Yes, Lord..."

"Malfoy," the man said. "I am glad to see Severus has taught you your manners."

Lucius turned disdainful eye on Snape.

"I never got the chance to give my condolences regarding your wive, Severus."

Harry saw Snape tense, though he tried to hide it. Lord Malfoy seemed to take on a predatory grin.

"Such a terrible... tragedy." Lord Malfoy's face did not express the sentiment. "I was so sorry to hear of it."

"Indeed," Snape said curtly. "I do wish you well, Lucius."

"Of course; still a sore subject. She was such a fine witch. Shame about-" Snape cut him off, his tone darkening as his black eyes narrowed. Lord Malfoy's smile seemed to shrink slightly.

"Thank you Lord Malfoy, your condolences are most appreciated."

"Very well, Lord Prince," Lord Malfoy said Snape's title mockingly. "Blood always does tell, it seems."

He turned his disdainful gaze to Harry. Harry met his gaze unflinching, though he had to admit he certainly felt more than a little intimidated by the ancient man.

"Does it not, young Harry Prince?" He did not bother to wait for Harry's reply. Harry forced himself not to glare after the man.

"Who is he?" he asked Snape. Snape seemed rather unperturbed by the man's manner. He was always touchy about his former wife, Harry knew, but Lord Malfoy seemed very familiar with him.

"An associate," Snape replied shortly. He was clearly not interested in giving more information. "I trust you are able to handle boarding the train on your own?" He sounded as if he very much doubted it.

Harry nodded. He would be rather glad to be out of the old bat's overbearing presence in truth. Snape lowered his gaze and bore into Harry with his dark eyes.

"You will behave yourself." Snape said, his voice hard. Harry nodded.

"Albus Dumbledore will not let you come to any harm, but that does not mean your actions will not have consequences. You must choose who to associate with carefully. You must always remember your place in this world." Harry had heard the same lecture time and again, and his let his face show his boredom. Snape evidently noticed this, because his voice became even harder.

"I will not allow you to destroy connections and alliances I have built over centuries to be a self-righteous little idiot." His voice was sharp now, and more than a little threatening. "You will represent me with the dignity that my station demands. Do you understand me!?"

Severus Snape had always made it seem like his position was more of a burden than something he actually desired. Harry had never actually considered that it was a facade, and that Snape had carefully built and cultivated his position because he was actually ambitious. He nodded mutely.

"Good." Snape pulled open the green door once again to reveal three people. It was a very clearly muggle couple with a young girl Harry's age with long, bushy brown hair.

"Erm, hello, Mr..." The man paused.

"Lord Prince," Snape snapped. "You are at the right place."

He held the door open as they went through, then swept through himself. He let the door slam with a loud metallic crash.

"Hello, young man. You must be his son." said the man who was now looking at Harry.

"Grandson, actually," Harry corrected, shaking the man's hand. "Harry Prince."

"That is a grand name," the man mused. He had a rather kind, patient demeanor that made Harry like him immediately. "Grandfather, you say? He looks no more than twenty-five!"

"It's a long story," Harry said.

"Ah, secrets, I see. Anyway, this is my wonderful wife," He nodded to the rather short, thin woman beside him. "And this is my daughter Hermione."

"Hello," Harry said. "First year?"

"Yeah," he said. "We're not magical. We were completely shocked."

Harry knew that associating with muggle-borns was generally a no-no, and to be kept strictly limited. It was for that reason that he held out his hand to Hermione.

"That's brilliant! You must be really excited." She took his hand nervously.

"See, she's making friends already," the man said enthusiastically. Harry noted that the mother seemed more skeptical. "Why don't we say goodbye and let your new friend show you around?"

Harry intended to do just that, but a shout from behind distracted him.

"Prince!" Said a loud, rather high-pitched voice. "Look, it's Harry Prince!"

Harry turned around to see two students his age approaching, a boy and a girl. They wore the fine, elegant robes that only those from an immortal bloodline would possess. Harry became weary.

"Yep, that's him," said the boy. He was a tall, thin boy with dark hair who looked like he was a year older than Harry. "The famous Harry Prince."

The girl was shorter than Harry, with straight black hair and a sharp, elegant features. He saw the Rosier crest on her expensive robes. The boy bore the insignia of the Nott household.

"So is it really true? Did you really punch Black?" the Rosier girl asked in awe. "Sorry, I'm Tracey, and this is Theo."

"Er, yeah," Harry replied sheepishly as he shook both their hands.

"Brilliant!" The Nott boy looked at him impressed.

"Yeah, nobody could believe it!" Her face turned haughty. Harry thought that it was remarkably similar to that of Lord Malfoy. "He thinks he's so special. Lord Black isn't even a Death Eater!"

The Nott boy snorted. "He's richer than any Death Eater."

This made Harry rather uneasy, but he pushed it aside. These were the types of friends he should be making, and they seemed to like him. Best of all they were no fans of Black. Unfortunately Hermione chose that moment to remind him of her presence.

"Erm, hello, Harry," she said somewhat timidly. The other two narrowed their eyes at her.

"Who are you?" asked Tracey bluntly, her eyes narrowed.

"Hermione Granger," she said tentatively, sensing the unease.

"I don't know any Grangers," said Theo. "You must be a mudbl-"

"Shut up, Theo," Tracey hissed to him. "He means muggle-born. Non magic parents."

Harry could tell her politeness was mostly feigned, but he gave her credit for at least trying.

"Look, the mud- muggle-borns are dealt with over there," Theo said, his voice cold as he pointed toward a small cluster of students around an older man. "They'll sort you out."

Hermione recognized the dismissal, and with a questioning glance at Harry she made her way over. Harry gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Thank goodness," Tracey said with an exaggerated sigh. "So why did that muggle-born know your name, Harry?"

Her tone indicated no accusation, but Harry could tell it was more than curiosity. "Just being polite."

"That's very kind, Harry, but they need to know their place," Tracey said. Theo looked more thoughtful.

"I never understood the big deal about mudbloods. They must have their place, otherwise the Dark Lord wouldn't tolerate them. I just wish they would stop complaining so bloody much." Tracey nodded sympathetically, and even Harry found himself silently agreeing. Not a day went by when there wasn't some muggle-born complaining about discrimination.

"Yeah, Snape's wife was muggle-born." Harry said. "Erm, I mean Lord Prince. He says that they talk about muggle-born issues to distract people from the real issues."

Theo nodded knowingly. "Lord Prince is right. It keeps the riff-raff distracted so the Dark Lord can get important work done." Harry and Tracey nodded sagely. Harry rather thought that his and Snape's interpretation was rather different from the one Theo offered, but he felt it prudent not to point that out.

Harry found the two fellow Death Eater scions to be rather easy to get along with, but he made sure to guard his feelings and show no weakness around them. Theo was a clever boy who, while not very a very sympathetic or kind person, disdained open cruelty. Tracey was rather vain, gossipy and self-centered, but seem to posses an empathetic streak that she tried to hide. He wondered aloud why Snape had never tried to force a friendship between them before like he had with Black, Avery, and Goyle.

"Er, well, you're not exactly the most impressive looking person," Tracey said, looking at him critically.

"What she means is that you look like a scrawny little dork," Theo said. "With all due respect."

"And you kinda have a reputation as a bit of a goody-two-shoes." Tracey added.

"But you punched Black, so you must be all right." Theo finished. "Doesn't hurt that you're a Prince."

"Of course," Harry replied sarcastically.

"Hey, it's not like our families are nothing, Mr. High and Mighty Prince Harry," Tracey said with mock indignation. Harry smiled at this.

The call for boarding soon went out, and the students made a mad rush to the entrance as the school's supervisors trying desperately to keep some form of order.

A large, heavy metal door with a bright-red sign bearing the words "Extreme Caution" was the only entrance. It set into the stone wall of the platform tunnel. It made Harry uneasy, and he could see that his two companions were no more impressed.

"It looks so _muggle_," Tracey said, unease in her voice. Harry had to agree.

"It _is_ muggle," Theo said neutrally. "Didn't you read Hogwarts: A History? We're taking a _bullet train._"

"Why would we take a muggle train?" Tracy demanded.

"It's faster."

"Faster than the Portal?" Harry asked incredulously.

"If you want to transport four hundred people at once, yes," Theo said. He looked at them disdainfully as if they were both idiots.

"Well sorry, Mr. Know-it-All," Tracy said, her voice full of exasperation.

"Don't get angry at me just because you're ignorant."

Tracy growled angrily and shouldered past several other students ignoring their dirty looks. Harry smiled at their antics.

The train itself was clearly of muggle design but the inside was decorated richly with dark wood paneling and lit by candles enchanted to be bright enough to read by. Harry and Theo found Tracey quickly enough in an empty compartment near the back of the train, and they sat down, the earlier disagreement apparently forgotten. The door slid open soon almost immediately after they closed it.

"Erm, hello," Hermione said, glancing nervously at them. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry ignored the glares from the other two as he moved over to let her sit down. They quickly feigned indifference when Hermione glanced at them. Harry could not help but be amused at the sudden awkwardness he had created.

The train suddenly accelerated, and Harry felt his stomach lurch. Theo and Tracey, who were sitting backward-facing, were nearly thrown from their seats. The acceleration continued on for an absurdly long time before it ended, yet the blackness outside the window did not let up.

They rode in silence for a while longer with Tracey and Theo trying to shoot Harry pointed glared while Hermione wasn't paying attention. Hermione herself seemed oblivious to the tension, and it was she who broke the tense silence. Her shyness earlier was clearly caused more by being out of her element than any inherent timidness.

"So you were really raised by Severus Snape?" she asked, turning to Harry, awe clear in her voice.

"Yeah," Harry replied easily. "The old bat _tried_ to raise me, at least. Doesn't seem to satisfied with the result, but what can you do?" Harry grinned at the intake of breath that his open disrespect of such a powerful man had drawn from the other three.

"You are so lucky," Hermione said. "He must know so much!"

"Never tells me much," Harry said. Snape was clever, and he had Harry's best interests at heart, but there was no love. Hermione's warm, caring father had made Harry absurdly jealous, and he was forced to remind himself that she could not know when anger boiled up in him at the question. She was raised by muggles, and that could not have been pleasant.

An awkward silence stretched on that seemed unbearable to Hermione.

"So what House do you want to get into?" she asked, this time to the compartment as a whole. She seemed to not notice or not care that the other two were actively avoiding meeting her eyes.

"Aren't you muggle-born?" Theo asked, trying very hard to hide the disdain in his voice.

"Yes," Hermione said, her voice taking on an edge now. "Muggles are perfectly capable of reading about the magical world."

"I suppose I'll be Slytherin, like the rest of the Prince family," Harry said, cutting off Theo's retort. He knew that the boy was already at the limits of his patience with regard to their muggle-born companion. Harry did not want to push them too far.

"Slytherin seems all right. That's where He was from after all." She looked uneasy now. Slytherin was not welcoming of muggle-borns, and Hermione seemed to have picked that up in her reading. "I think Gryffindor seems nice."

"Gryffindor?" Tracey asked, incredulous. "Surely even your type has higher standards!"

Harry cut Hermione's retort off. "Gryffindor's not so bad. My mum was in there." Tracey frowned at that.

The compartment was suddenly flooded with daylight, and they all gasped at the sight they beheld.

The train remained inside its tunnel, but the tunnel was set with regular glass panes that looked out onto the outside world. Trees and rivers were rushing past at fantastic speed, almost a blur of shapeless color. Only the sun, now low in the sky, remaining still.

"Is that real?" Tracy asked.

"Of course," Hermione replied at the same time as Theo said "Yeah." He glared at her.

"There's no air in the tunnel, so nothing slows the train down." Hermione continued. "It goes really, really fast. We ride them to cross large distances in the muggle world. It's really brilliant."

"Only because wizards charmed them," Theo replied disdainfully. "We just got you muggles to build everything for us."

"That's not true. We used to use e-lec-tricity before." Hermione retorted smugly.

"Then why did you stop?" Theo asked pointedly. Hermione had no answer.

The train once again plunged below the ground into darkness, and soon after they felt the jolt of the acceleration as it began to slow down. The uncanny quietness and smoothness of the ride was unnerving to Harry, who was so used to rush of air and noise that accompanied quick movement on broomstick or in a car.

They filed out of the metal hatch leading from the train after most of the other students had already left. The station that greeted them was clearly magical, lit by enchanted candles that cast more warm yellow light than any mundane candle would. The red-brick walls of the basement room were covered in portraits, all of them alive with movement.

"All First Years will come to me," a voice shouted from above the chattering students. Harry and the others followed the voice. They found themselves in the presence of the most curious man Harry had ever seen.

His robes were more colorful than usual even for a wizard, and he was very tall. He had a beard that stretched down to his waist, and his hair was nearly as long. Both were a reddish brown. The man had a rather handsome face, with bright-blue eyes and half-moon glasses. He had the distinct features of an immortal, his smooth, youthful face at odds with the clear signs of great age in his bearing.

He called out again, his voice having both a gentle but authoritative quality at the same time.

"That's Albus Dumbledore," Hermione said, her voice full of awe "He's the Headmaster, and a Councillor."

"How much have you read about us?" Tracy demanded in her shrill voice. Theo seemed almost impressed despite himself. Harry had recognized Albus Dumbledore, of course. He was one of the few people Snape would admit closeness too, and anybody who could tolerate Severus Snape enough to be friends with him was an impressive person in Harry's book.

"Snape said that he's one of the most powerful wizards in the world." Harry said. "Almost as powerful as the Dark Lord in his early days."

Tracey and Theo looked at him with skepticism, but Hermione looked thoughtful.

"That's all of you?" Dumbledore asked. "Good. You will follow me. Try not to stray please, I do not wish to have to find you."

Harry and the other first-years followed the eccentric looking man as he led them out of the station.

"This is Hogsmeade, of course. I'm sure many of you have been here, but our muggle-born students may not be aware. It's the largest wizard village in Britain."

Hermione was looking around, her brown eyes wide with awe. Tracey, for her part, seemed more amused by Hermione's reaction than any of the beautiful sights, and began to mime her while Theo smirked maliciously. Harry glared hard at her, but she ignored him.

It was actually small by muggle standards, Harry knew, but it was impressive no less. Large, elegant Victorian style homes surrounded the station separated by wide roadways upon which an assortment of vehicles traveled. Harry saw the older students boarding horseless carriages. Most adult wizards seemed to prefer cars, though they were nothing like the boring metal boxes muggles drove.

Harry saw one car the shape of a dragon and two hippogriffs, all hovering slightly off the ground and gliding noiselessly. Dumbledore led them along the wide pavement walkway that he assumed led to the castle. The entire town seemed to be lit by torchlight, though the flames would never die, and they cast light that was as bright as any LED street-lamp.

"It's so beautiful," Hermione breathed. Harry found himself agreeing, but Tracey remained totally unimpressed. Were the Rosiers located in Hogsmeade?

Snape had always said that the capital, for all its epic grandness, was a pale imitation to this place because it was so full of history and tradition. Harry found himself agreeing wholeheartedly.

"Please do try to avoid the street," Dumbledore called out as a small boy with blond hair gaped in terror at the Basilisk shaped car that had slammed to a halt just in front of him without a sound. "Not all vehicles have such impressive collision detection charms as the Serpent's Gaze series."

They came to a stop shortly, and Harry realized that there was a lake that had been behind the row of houses all long. Dumbledore led them along a branch in the path that led to a small harbor and out onto a long dock.

The students climbed into the same small boats that generations of Hogwarts students had ridden before. Albus Dumbledore seemed to be humming some kind of tune to himself as he sat at the head of the column, his tall, eccentric form visible even from near the back where Harry and Theo rode.

Hogwarts came into view, and it was as beautiful and ancient as everyone said. The soon-to-be students gasped and chatted excitedly at the site. The castle was huge, and looked like it had been ancient even before the Dark Lord had begun his rule.

"Snape says that it hasn't changed at all since he was there," Harry said.

"That's because it can magically expand to accommodate more students," Hermione told him, her boat floating nearby. Her companion, a pale, freckled redhead looked to be rather unimpressed with the company.

Harry could not count the number of other first-years he saw around him, but he guessed it must be hundreds. There were two each to a boat. They passed two abreast under the a tunnel and came onto an underground dock, where Albus Dumbledore stood waiting. It took several moments before they crowded onto the land.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Dumbledore said grandly. "I would tell you to line up single-file, but I do not think that is possible anymore. You will now be sorted. Sir Nicolas here will call your name and you will enter the Great Hall to be sorted." Dumbledore motioned upward, and Harry looked up along with everybody else to see the ghost hovering above.

"Hello," the ghost said, looking curiously down at the students. The muggle-borns gasped, of course, but most of the magic-raised had never seen a ghost before and were also suitably impressed.

Dumbledore left them there, and Sir Nicolas read out the first name.

"Hannah Abbot, please enter the Hall." A blonde girl with pigtails went through apprehensively.

Draco Black swaggered confidently through the door when his name was called. Harry wondered if the had would even need to touch his head to send him to Slytherin. On the other hand, he wished he could see Black's face if he were sorted into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

"Harry Prince" the ghost said pompously. Harry's stomach twisted in knots as he stepped through the passageway into his fate.

Hundreds of faces stared at him from eight long tables, with another smaller table located at the front where the teachers clearly sat. Harry could see by the banners above that two tables belonged to each House. Hundreds of candles hovered in the air casting a warm yellow-tinged light over the room. Above them the roof opened into the sky, which showed nothing but inky blackness punctuated with stars. It took Harry a second to realize that that was an illusion.

Harry made his way to the small stool behind which Albus Dumbledore stood, a rather tattered, worn hat held in his arms. The immortal headmaster smiled encouragingly at him as he sat, and then dropped the hat over his head.

_Very interesting. A dilemma, I see. You know you would do well in Slytherin, but your heart's not in it. There are many decent Slytherins, Mr. Potter, I assure you. Potter? That's not for me to say, I'm afraid._

_You want me to choose for you? No, I don't think so. This choice must be yours, Mr. Potter. The choice is what will decide, you see. Are you courageous enough to defy expectations? Perhaps true courage is working within them._

Harry thought that the Hat made a rather good point.

_Don't sound so surprised. Now choose, Mr. Potter._

It was an agonizing decision. Harry wanted nothing more than to avoid Slytherin with its politics and its intrigues all together, but that _would_ be the coward's way out. He could accomplish so much more from within the power structure than by mindlessly defying it.

_Your ambitions are admirable, but I'm afraid your courage wins out. Better be_ GRYFFONDOR!

If any of the students were shocked at the Death Eater family scion being sorted in Gryffindor they did not show it. All eight tables clapped politely as Harry walked on shaky legs toward the Gryffindor table next to sandy-haired boy who he recalled as Seamus Finnigan. They made room between them for him to sit.

"Hermione Puckle!"

Harry gave a start. The surname she had given on the train must have been her muggle name. Muggle-born wizard names were always so frivolous and silly sounding, and Harry wondered for the first time if this was a deliberate shaming tactic. Hermione's face showed no small displeasure as she sat on the stool. The hat deliberated for a long time before shouting "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry clapped, and he and Seamus moved to let her sit down.

A muggle-born black boy name Dean Tilby and the redhead who was with Hermione on the boat, Ronald Weasley, were the only other two Gryffindors after Hermione. Tracey was rather quickly sorted into Slytherin where she joined Theo and Draco Black.

Professor Dumbledore stood up to say the standard welcoming speech, and to list the school rules which turned out to consist only of avoiding the Forbidden Forest. Food then appeared suddenly in front of them, causing Hermione and Dean Tilby to jump out of their skins. Harry absently wondered how many house elves it took to prepare all that food.

"Prince Harry! Well, aren't _we_ blessed," said a red haired boy a few years older from across him.

"It is truly an honor, Your Highness," said another from beside him who looked remarkably similar.

"It's Harry Prince," Hermione corrected snottily.

"Real sense of humor in that one," he said, winking at Harry. Harry smiled.

"So, Fred, d'you think we should trust him?" the other asked lightly.

"Dunno George. He seems okay with Miss Puckle here," Fred replied, stressing the absurd muggle-born name. Hermione scowled darkly.

"Yeah, but wouldn't that be a Slytherin thing to do?" George asked rhetorically.

"I'm right here," Harry said, but he found himself grinning. Hermione was glaring at the two boys in incomprehension.

"Yeah, don't mind Fred and George," said Ron. "They're kinda special, if y'know what I mean."

"You are too kind, brother. You had us worried for a moment there. What would mum say if her ickle Ronniekins ended up in Hufflepuff?" Fred asked. Harry wondered how long his own sorting took.

"Shut up," Ron said.

"Hufflepuff isn't so bad," Hermione said. "Many great witches and wizards came from Hufflepuff. It says so in Hogwarts: A History."

Fred and George sighed loudly.

Harry watched their familiar, easy banter with envy. He glanced over at the Slytherin table, but was not able to make out Theo and Tracey. He wondered what it would have been like had he been sorted there. Then he spotted the pale, blond form of Draco Black.

* * *

Charlie Weasley certainly spread the tale of Albus' treachery far and wide, but nobody would have taken him seriously had he not been helped by powerful friends. Albus had kept his position of Minister, but he was forced to show is hand as the dictator that he really was. It did not take him long to discern who was responsible for his disgrace.

He took Lucius into custody in front of his wife and young son and the whole of Diagon Alley. Albus felt only a brief pang of guilt at the spectacle as his Aurors chained the man and Apparated away with him. Witches and wizards who had gathered to watch quickly dispersed, casting their eyes low on the ground and giving the Minister a wide birth, their horror and fear palpable.

Narcissa Malfoy dared to look at him, her face full of loathing, but even she flinched back when he approached her. That hurt even more. What did he intend, anyway? Empty apologies?

Lucius was taken to the Trial Room in the Department of Magical Law enforcement. Dumbledore entered the room himself, alone, and sat in the minister's seat, where Lucius wand rested. Lucius himself was the only other person in the room, shacked securely in the Condemned Chair. He was flanked by two dementors, which hovered only inches away from him. They would have towered over him even if he had stood.

"I am sure that you are aware of why you are here, Lucius," Albus said wearily.

The pale man was clearly trying to remain strong in the presence if his adversary, but the two creatures beside him were clearly having a powerful effect. "You did not seriously think you can continue to destroy our society without consequences, Dumbledore," he said.

"I was merely taking advantage of my situation, Lucius. Surely you would do the same, were you in my position," Albus said. The man sneered.

"I do not risk my life serving the Dark Lord so a muggle loving old fool can threaten myself and my family's way of life" Lucius said, his voice full of genuine conviction.

"I do not intend to threaten your way of life, Lucius," Albus explained calmly. "I am merely trying to extend the same to others who may be less fortunate."

"You are such a wretched, naive old fool. Why does the Dark Lord see fit to tolerate you?"

"That is a very good question," Albus said, his voice taking on an edge. "Perhaps you wish to ask him?"

He nodded to the dementor to Lucius' right. It grabbed his arm roughly, and forced the sleeve of his rather fine robes up to reveal the Dark Mark. It looked hideous against his pale flesh.

Lucius went white.

Albus smiled gravely. "No, that won't be necessary. Perhaps I am a naive old fool, but I have no interest in depriving your family of you."

"Not so noble as to be above threats, though," Lucius spat.

"Indeed not. Nor actions, my friend," Albus said gravely. "I do hope you will remember that next time, Lucius. Your stay in Azkaban will give you plenty of time to reflect on this.."

Lucius' face drained completely of color. "You cannot!" he sputtered desperately.

"Voldemort has instructed me to maintain his rule over Britain. He expects me to do what is necessary to accomplish that. Surely this is something you can understand?" Albus looked at the man pointedly.

"The Dark Lord will never allow this," he said with empty conviction. "He will have need of me."

"I am afraid that our," Albus forced himself to say, "master personally instructed me to do this. You will of be released to preform any duties he requires of you, and you will be returned to Azkaban upon completion." Albus nodded to the two dementors, and they began to glide from the room. Lucius did not resist, but his gray eyes remained fixed on Albus as he was led out, his loathing written clear on his face.

Albus smiled to himself when the man was gone. He played a very dangerous game, but it was the only satisfaction left to him now. Lucius would suspect that Albus was lying about his master specifically requesting the punishment, but he would never dare to question him about it.


	3. Master of Life

Albus felt his anxiety reach a fever pitch as he pulled open the heavy dungeon door. He was still rather breathless from the long climb, but he could not hesitate any longer. His insides were knotting so tightly that he feared he might turn into a giant knot himself.

Gellert Grindelwald peered wearily up at him. His once golden hair now white, and his once handsome face was now gaunt and lined, but his eyes were the same blue, and he smiled that same insolent smile when he saw who his visitor was.

"Albus! It is a very unexpected surprise," he said, rather absurdly cheerful despite his drab surroundings. He stood from his cot on threadbare slippers, his worn prison robe hanging off his thin body. "I did not expect you so soon."

Gellert moved to embrace him, and Albus accepted him wearily. The man seemed to have lost none of his charm.

"Come, we have much do discuss, I'm sure," he said, and he motioned for Dumbledore to sit on his cot with a smirk. "I do apologize for the hospitality."

Albus did not sit.

"Suit yourself," Gellert said, taking a seat himself with an involuntary sight of relief. He was clearly relieved to be off his feet. "It must be such a bitter irony, Albus."

"It is, isn't it?" Albus said, breaking his silent, his voice full of sorrow. He still remembered the day he had rejected Gellert's offer. Whatever other mistakes he had made, he never regretted that. Not until that fateful, miserable day at the Hogwarts gates.

"Not so much for me in truth. My answer is yes, if what you want to ask is as I expect."

Albus could not let his relief show. He had hoped, in some small corner of his mind, for Gellert to condemn him, and tell him that he would never work for Voldemort. Like Flamel did.

"What is done is done, my friend. I cannot give you the solace you desire. I do not concern myself with such things. Not like you." Gellert gave him a pitying look.

"You are not like Tom," Albus said. He tried not to make it sound like a question.

"Who's to say? I never enjoyed cruelty, you know what. I do what needs to be done. Rather like your Tom in truth." Gellert's face turned serious, a rare thing when around his old friend. "I have been here a long time. Nothing to do but think. I may have even entertained your noble ideals for a while."

"I had heard," Albus said, his voice sorrowful. It had been comforting to know that. Just one more sign that his noble ideas actually had some merit, and were somehow right and true.

But what did it ever accomplish? You sat in your school and Tom Riddle took over Britain. Now he's taking over all of Europe." Albus looked at him wearily.

"Tom said much the same thing." Gellert grinned at that. "It is a shame you were forced to bow to him as master. We would have been equals, Albus."

Albus sighed. "I could not stand by while you helped instigate a war that led to the slaughter of millions of muggles." Albus waved away Gellert's unspoken argument. "Just because they did most of the killing on their own, does not absolve you of the part you played. You could have prevented much of it."

"Your Riddle will not be happy ruling over wizards alone. He will do the same, you can be sure of it. He will come to me for that, yes, and I will not refuse him. Much better he do it my way than his own. You are right, Albus, I am not like him, but I am not like you either."

"I know," Albus said sadly. "I am not not much like myself."

Gellert smiled his mischievous smile.

"You are inside. You cannot be anything else. I pity you that." Albus could not help but be absurdly grateful to hear that, even if Gellert meant it as an insult.

* * *

"I show not your face but your heart's desire."

Tom Riddle stared at the mirror for a long time. Its backward-lettered inscription was almost childish, but Tom knew better. What would seem juvenile and uninspired to a worthless muggle was an enchantment of potent power that impressed even him.

Albus would have a platitude or two to say about the thing, he was sure. He rather wondered what Albus would see. Tom's own corpse? No, that was wrong. The sentimental old fool would see his dear dead sister alive and well. He might even see Tom and Gellert Grindelwald standing beside him in one big orgy of friendship and repentance.

Tom saw only himself.

What did that mean? Did he desire nothing anymore? He was immortal. Blessed by prophesy. Nobody could stand in his way. Oh sure, Albus plotted his own plots, and the Death Eaters plotted theirs, and Severus spent far too much time agonizing over his little mudblood pet. Snape would probably see himself standing next to the wench, forgiven, with a bunch of hook-nosed little ginger rugrats running around.

That made him think of Bella. She would surely see herself next to Tom himself. Did Bella want to whelp some rugrat? It did not seem unreasonable. She was certainly happy to satisfy his needs whenever he desired, rare as that was these days. He felt a moment's pity for Rodolphus. It took no great imagination to know what _he_ would see in the mirror.

Mortals were so pathetic.

Not that immortals were any better. Nicolas Flamel would surely have seen his wife returned to him, yet he had refused his and Albus' offer.

That was the real pickle, wasn't it?

He had spoken true when he said he had no need of the stone. His Horcruxes would anchor him to life forever unless they were somehow destroyed. His Prophesy guaranteed that they would not. He had dealt with the two biggest threats. One permanently, and the other near enough that it didn't matter. That still gnawed at him somewhat, but there was no alternative.

He did not regret killing the Flamels. They would have complicated things far too much. It was hard enough getting past the school's wards as it was. He suspected that, were its founder still alive, he would not have been able to locate the Palace of Beauxbatons at all.

The half-breed Headmistress had been surprisingly tough, and it had only been a direct hit from his Killing Curse that had finished her. Her body was already starting to stink. Tom felt no need to rush, though. The Palace was his. The Elder Wand would easily summon his Death Eaters to him when the time was right.

The mirror had been an unexpected discovery. It was located just upstairs from the headmistress' office set in a small room with a large window that faced outward. It gave a rather spectacular view of several mountains and the valley below. He found it rather fitting that Flamel had used English lettering when his own title, Voldemort, was French.

He took one last look at the artifact. He was Master of Death. He did not need the Philosopher's Stone. It would only be useful as a tool to control others. A very large carrot. He did not truly need it at all. No.

He was about to turn away; to leave the mirror behind, when something heavy fell into his pocket. He pulled it out. The Philosopher's Stone was a curious little thing, rather heavier than it had any right to be, and looking so much like a human heart that had been turned to stone. The mirror was rather clever protection, but an utter failure in the end. As it must be. All things yield to Lord Voldemort.

Master of Death _and_ Life. Fate really did adore him. Would Albus have a platitude for this? Tom smiled as he turned away.

* * *

"Prince actually _thanks_ his house elf. Can you believe it?" Draco turned to face Harry, and his cruel smirk widened further.

"Hey Prince! I was just telling everyone about your tragic love affair. You should have seen him bravely defend her honor!" Many of the Slytherins laughed at this, and even Tracey smirked. "It's no surprise where you ended up."

"Yeah, bad luck about that, Black," Harry replied glibly. "They don't really accept people who are afraid of muggles in Gryffindor."

Draco stood up abruptly, his face full of rage. Theo and an older Slytherin quickly reacted trying to calm the boy before he embarassed his House. Harry turned away, but Draco shouted after him.

"Watch yourself, Prince. Gryffindors have their reputation for a reason. I bet the old bad will just be thrilled." Harry hid his unease. Snape had always said that Harry was destined for Gryffindor, but he had made it clear that the hat allowed the wearer to choose. Slytherin was the prudent choice.

Harry _had_ chosen Slytherin, though. He certainly wasn't complaining about the hat's decision, but he still couldn't avoid the irritation at being tricked. Would it have sent him to Slytherin if he had chosen Gryffindor, or was he always destined for Gryffindor? The hat certainly hinted at the former, but he had no way to be sure.

Hermione questioned him sharply about the exchange when he sat down next to Ron and Seamus at the Gryffindor table. He fought the urge to tell her to mind her own business.

"Just pureblood stuff. He's an old friend." he said casually.

"That didn't sound very friendly." she said, her voice full of skepticism.

"Geeze Hermione; can't you take a hint?" Ron asked her incredulously. "Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it?"

"I'm just trying to show some concern," she said. "We don't need Harry losing us points before we even start class!"

"Look, Hermione, it's hard to explain, okay?" Harry said, trying to placate her. "It takes a certain type of person to be in Slytherin, y'know?"

"Slytherin is where most of the Dark Lord's greatest supporters came from," she said enthusiastically. "A lot of immortals come from Slytherin too. It says so in Walpurgis: The History of the Dark Lord's Rise."

"You're smart Hermione. Why isn't he called the Lord of Fluffy Bunnies?" Harry saw the mood around him darken. He felt their unease at the borderline treasonous statement. "Do I have to spell it out?"

"What young Prince Harry here means," said George from beside Ron.

"Is that our glorious leader can be a bit of a tyrant. Maybe. Just a little bit." said Fred, who sat across from his twin brother.

"Not that that's a bad thing." said George.

"Especially if you're lucky enough to be born a wizard." said Fred. They both wore conspiratorial grins.

"Being a muggle isn't all that bad, really." Hermione said, but she looked thoughtful. "It's not like my mum and dad are rich. They're just dentists."

"That's because they know their place," said George darkly. He then shifted his tone with ease, changing the subject as quickly as it had come up. "Ah, if it isn't Perfect Percy, the most Perfect Prefect of all."

Sure enough, Percy Weasley, who had led Harry and the other first-years up to their Common Room in the Gryffindor tower the night before, had come around. He shuffled through a bundle of parchments before placing one in front of George.

"George," he said curtly, clearly not interested in their antics.

"It seems you may be upstaged, dear brother," Fred said, a rather cruel grin on his face.

"We've met someone with even duller than you." Hermione seemed to suddenly realize that she was the subject of their taunts, and she scowled defensively. Harry though that was rather cruel, but the twins seemed to agree.

"Nah, she's still young," Fred said. "We'll prevent her from taking the dark path."

"Yeah," George agreed. "We'll protect her from your evil influence." Hermione continued to glare.

"Lay off, guys," Ron said

The brothers immediately turned their wrath on their little brother. "Ickle Ronniekins is in love!" they chorused together.

"Let me know if they give you any trouble. I don't want to take House points but I will if I had to." Percy looked at Hermione sympathetically as he handed her her timetable. The twins gasped in mock horror.

"Prince?" Harry accepted his timetable and tried to tune out the Weasleys' banter as he studied it.

Transfiguration was Harry's first class. He had always heard that it was a specialty of Albus Dumbledore, and half expected the headmaster to be in the room when he arrived, but that was not to be. Instead he was greeted with the sight of an absurdly short man flanked by two full-sized witches who, while rather average in height, appeared gigantic beside him.

"Is that all?" the tiny man squeaked. "Good, good! Let us begin. My name is Filius Flitwick, and I am the head Transfiguration instructor."

Flitwick informed them that most lessons would be conducted by his aids. He conducted the first lesson himself, however, winding through the students as he watched them attempting to turn a toothpick into a needle. Harry was never a big supporter of pureblood prejudice, but even he couldn't help but feel a little shame when he saw that Hermione's matchstick was far more needle-like than his own.

Charms had been taught by Snape's own wife, but she had died when Harry was young. The head instructor position remained unfilled, but the two elderly aids seemed capable enough. Harry found himself rather able in the subject, and even Hermione looked impressed when he was the first to make his feather hover.

Potions was led by a jovial, immortal man with a booming voice named Horace Slughorn. Harry had already heard about Slughorn's Slug Club and his blatant favoritism of talented students. His disdain at the idea was rather lessened when he found that he had a talent with potions himself. It didn't hurt that Ron, who he partnered with, was rather happy to let him lead the process. The redhead seemed to loath potions.

Hermione's admiration seemed to have turned to jealousy at this point. Harry was sympathetic. She did have a lot to prove, being muggle-born. Slughorn seemed to find her impressive as well. He let her shout out the answers to his questions without putting her hand up.

Defensive Arts was taught by Sirius Black. Harry was weary, but he seemed to be the opposite of his great-grandson in every way imaginable. The only similarity was the expensive robes, and the distinctly similar features. Sirius grinned as he read his family motto to the classroom.

"Toujours Pour," he recited, looking at the silvery lettering. "Any of you lot speak French?"

Hermione spoke up. "Er, no Sir, but I think I know what it means..."

Professor Black smiled at her encouragingly.

"It means 'always pure,'" she said, her voice uncertain.

"Indeed. One point to Gryffindor." He smiled devilishly. "Are you pure, Miss Puckle?"

Hermione looked at him wide-eyed, uncertain of what to say. "I suppose not," she squeaked.

"Why not?"

"My parents weren't magical," she said.

"Wrong," Black said, staring hard at the class. "You're just as pure as I am. It's just that your magical line is a bit smaller. That's how I look at it. What was your muggle name anyway, Miss Puckle?"

"Granger," Hermione said sadly.

Black laughed, a sound uncannily similar to barking. "Sorry, sorry." He tried and failed not to grin. "Don't look so upset, Miss Puckle. I always thought muggles chose absurdly bland, serious surnames. It's certainly beats Mulcibar, or Goyle." Black grinned. "Best we don't mention that to any Slytherin friends, eh?"

"Anyway," he said, looking somewhat sheepish. "This class is a compliment to that taught by our own, dear, Professor Prince." He looked like he tasted something sour as he said the other professor's name.

"You will be instructed in purely defensive magic in this class, useful for defending against curses, Dark creatures, and Dark artifacts. We will also cover static enchantments such as wards and barriers in later years. Every so often this class and Dark Arts," Professor Black made a face, "will be combined for dueling and self-defense training."

Professor Black nodded to his aids. "Professor Lupin will be instructing you on Dark Creatures," he nodded to a tall, sandy-haired man who looked rather young, "while Professor Fudge will instruct you on curse identification." The second man was short, with lime-green robes and a rather ornate cap.

Dark Arts was the class that Harry was most looking forward to, and that was despite the fact that his guardian was the Professor. The classroom was in the dungeons, and Harry nearly got lost trying to find it. He was very nearly late, but apparently managed to make it in time, because Snape made no comment when he sat down next to Ron.

He was the last student in. Snape stood at the front of the room flanked by his two teaching aides. Harry could tell from their fine dark robes that they were both purebloods from old families, perhaps even immortal headed ones. The classroom itself was dimly lit by several blue-white flames along the walls, and the ceiling was very high. Harry could smell the damp air of the dungeon, but the room itself was not cold.

"We will begin now," Snape said curtly. He pointed a finger at what was likely a random student, but it just so happened to be Hermione Puckle. Ron snickered at this, but he quickly quailed when Snape's gaze turned toward him.

"Perhaps you should read instead, Mr. Weasley," he said nastily. "You will flip to the introduction on Page 13 and read it out loud to the class."

Harry thoroughly enjoyed watching his new friend put on the spot, and made sure his face showed it as Ron desperately flipped to the correct page.

"The Dark Arts. Many have tried to define the Dark arts, but they have always failed to nail down a precise definition. Like most magic the Dark arts defy a simple explanation. For the purposes of this text we will define the Dark arts as any magic that can be used to cause harm and injury that is resistant to magical protection or healing. For this reason the Bone Breaking Curse is not considered Dark magic because it can be easily healed and is blocked by a simple shielding spell. The Slashing Curse is considered an example of Dark magic because it cannot be healed by normal means nor easily blocked. There are degrees of Dark magic as well. The Slashing Curse has a well-known countercurse that can fully heal its effects if applied quickly while the Cruciatus Curse causes permanent nerve damage that cannot be reversed."

"That is enough." Snape said, cutting Ron off. He pointed at Hermione again. "What does the last part mean?"

"Some dark arts are worse than others?" She stammered, clearly intimidated by the man.

"Wrong." He stared hard at her while she blushed beet red, but after long moments she seemed to understand what Snape was getting at.

"It's about control," she said in a small voice.

"Correct," Snape said. "It seems you _can_ do more than recite from the text after all. One point to Gryffindor."

Harry was rather shocked. Hermione seemed to be as well, but she was probably just glad to no longer be under the man's gaze.

"The key to practicing the Dark Arts safety is knowing which spells can be controlled and which cannot. Your first assignment will be a six inch essay where you will explain your understanding this concept in detail." Snape paused, and the instructions appeared on the chalkboard.

"Professor Borgin will instruct you on the properties and nature of Dark artifacts." He said nodding to the short, balding man on the right. The man to his left was taller, but still shorter than Snape, and seemed a rather out of place as Dark Arts instructor. He had mid-length brown hair and a rather more handsome face than the two other man, not that that was saying much. "Professor Martin will instruct you on Jinxes and Hexes."

Snape took his leave without another word, stalking menacingly from the classroom and slamming the door behind him without any care for the loud bang it made. Harry could sense the relief of the other students.

The class Harry found himself enjoying most, much to his own surprise, was Muggle Arts. He would never admit it to anybody, but the ant-muggle sentiment common in his social circle had prejudiced him against it.

The class was taught by an ancient, bald man name who did not appear to have any aids. He was a rather corpulent man, though nowhere near as fat as Slughorn. He smiled at the students as he began his lecture.

"Welcome, my name is Arthur Weasley, and I will be teaching you muggle studies." He pretended not to notice as the Gryffindor first years shot glances at their own Weasley, who hid a smug smile rather poorly. Harry could see the vague resemblance in their faces, but he could not imagine the aged man with brilliant red hair no matter how he tried.

"I realize that anti-muggle sentiment is not so great in Gryffindor, but I am sure most of you still hold many misconceptions." He glanced quickly at Harry as he said this. "I am not here to tell you that your feelings are wrong. My job is to educate you. Whatever you may think of them, muggles outnumber us over a thousand to one, and their actions have a profound on us all."

Harry wondered absently how he handled the Slytherins. He would have to ask Theo or Tracey.

The man pointed a gnarled finger at Dean Tilby. "Young man, am I correct in assuming that you are muggle-born?"

Dean nodded silently.

"Perhaps you can help me out then." The man flicked his wand, and suddenly his desk, bare before, contained a rather small metal sphere. A cold dread swept through the classroom, and Harry felt as if he had suddenly been struck ill. His nose clogged up, and his throat constricted. He could see that the other students were responded similarly, and they began sniffling and wiping their noses.

"That's radioactive!" It was not Dean but Hermione who spoke up. Her voice was almost panicked, and Dean too became uneasy when she said that word. Their voices had taken on the low, stuffy quality.

Professor Weasley smiled. "Correct, Miss Granger, but I did not ask you, did I?"

Hermione looked mildly chastened, but plowed on. "That's dangerous!"

"More than you know, Miss Granger. What you see here is the core of a nuclear bomb."

The entire class sat bolt upright at these words. He continued as they hung on to every word, trying to avoid blowing their noses while he spoke.

"It's perfectly safe. Without high explosives to compress the sphere into a critical mass, it has no chance of exploding. The sphere is mildly radioactive, but even a muggle would not be harmed from it unless they breathed in dust. You magic, on the other hand, protects you completely from moderate doses of radiation. That is why you have all suddenly taken ill. In the same way that your immune system fights a virus, your magic fights off damaging radiation."

His gnarled finger found Harry this time. "You, Mr. Prince, correct?" Harry nodded. "What do you know of Gamp's Law?

Harry glared in irritation at Hermione, whose hand had shot up. "It sounds familiar. I think it has to do with Transfiguration. What does that have to do with muggles?"

"That is a good question. Gump's Law states that there are five things that cannot be created or summoned with magic. The most famous are, of course, food and metal." Hermione's hand shot up again. "You have something to add, Miss Granger?"

"That's not true, though, Professor! The Philosopher's Stone can make metal and there's a whole branch of magic, Agricultūra, that deals with creating and modifying the properties of food." Professor Weasley nodded.

"That is correct. I think Gryffindor certainly deserved two points for the insight." He smiled at Hermione, who suddenly looked absurdly smug. "Gamp's Law is an old law devised before the field of Agricultūra was developed or Nicolas Flamel created the Philosopher's Stone. The Law also specifically refers only to Transfiguration. Four of the five laws are routinely broken by magic, in fact, and you will surely learn about this in future years." He paused, waving his wand, and writing appeared on the chalkboard. He waited pointedly until he saw that quills were out and parchment was being written to.

"There is one, however, that is not, and that is the creation of radioactive elements. Radiation overwhelms magic; it can only defend against it. It is much like magic does with electrical devices." He waved his wand harshly, with clear effort, and the silver sphere vanished. The students sighed in relief as their symptoms faded away.

"Muggles on the other hand suffer no such limitations. They can break all five laws, and they do so routinely. They cannot transfigure, of course, but their numbers allow them to engage in _industry_." He pointed at the title on the board. The lesson became much less exiting then as Professor Weasley began to explain the various trades that muggles engaged in and the things they produced from them.

"That was irresponsible!" Hermione said, her bossy tone in full force as they walked from the classroom. "He could have blown the whole of Hogsmeade up!"

"C'mon, Hermione," Ron said. "That was brilliant, you have to admit."

"You're just saying that because he's your grandfather," Hermione said, her voice condescending.

"Nah, he's right; it was brilliant," Seamus said easily. Hermione glared at him.

"Are all wizard-born so reckless?" she asked, exasperated.

"Hey, you wanted to be in Gryffindor," Harry said, grinning at her.

"Of course she did. Mudbloods aren't welcome anywhere else." The malicious voice of Draco Black cut through the Gryffindor's chatter. He was joined by the other first-year Slytherins including Tracy and Theo, who shot Harry an appraising look.

"It's good to see you too, Black," Harry said easily, cutting off Ron's retort. Harry did not miss the look of utter rage on the redhead's face. Draco turned to him.

"All right, Prince? Written any love letters to Tinky yet?" Harry grinned.

"Nah, afraid not. She's just not interested Black. You need to move on." Black sputtered in outrage. Acting almost on impulse, Harry addressed the other Slytherins, pointedly ignoring Black.

"So, er, what did you guys think of Weasley's lesson?" Ron shot him a glance but he ignored it.

"What, you think we want to chat with brainless Gryffindorks?" Black said haughtily, and he turned away. Most of the first-year Slytherins went with Black, but Tracey, Theo, and the rather thick, brutish girl whose name Harry did not recall stayed behind. It was the tall black boy, Blaise Zabini, who responded.

"Oi, what do you want us to say, Prince? It was impressive, I'll grant, but c'mon..."

"Nah, I was just curious," Harry said, ignoring the challenging tone.

"I think it was creepy," Tracey said. "It was like Dark magic, but worse."

"How would you know that?" Ron asked haughtily. Harry shot him another look, but he just glared back. She ignored him.

"You Weasleys really have elevated being blood-traitors to an art form," Theo said coldly. Ron sputtered in anger, but the boy cut him off. "But your great-grandfather does put on a good show."

"Grandfather," Ron corrected, somewhat mollified.

"It really says something about muggles that they would build something like that," Millicent Bulstrode said. Her voice was quiet in contrast to her appearance. Ron even seemed to agree with this sentiment. Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but she decided against it for some reason.

* * *

Barty Crouch did not much look like a Death Eater, Albus thought as he watched the man pacing back and forth in his office. The man's boyish looks and strawberry blonde curls were more suited to a member of a wizard boy band than a dangerous killer.

That wasn't what made him dangerous though. Albus had taught Barty Crouch himself. He had watched the boy from the day he was sorted into Slytherin until the day he had delighted his NEWT examiners with his surprising brilliance. Of all the Death Eaters, Albus knew that Barty Crouch Jr was the among the most dangerous.

The fireplace came to life suddenly, and a tall, elegant women stepped out. She did not seem to notice the ash that clung to her fine robes. Her true nature was revealed in her matted, unkempt hair, heavy, lidded eyes, and eyes that spoke of madness. Bellatrix Lestrange spared Albus a glance that was an equal mixture of contempt and fear as she turned to her fellow Death Eater.

They spoke in low voices. Albus could have easily listened in, but he rather doubted he wanted to know what they were discussing. He had learned early on that most secrets Voldemort kept from him were things that he was happy not knowing.

Alas that he was not always so merciful.

"His Imperial Majesty's parliament refuses to offer terms, Minister," Barty Crouch said coldly to Albus as Lestrange stepped back through the fireplace. "The Dark Lord regrets to inform you that another student has perished."

Albus' powerful Occlumency skills had become adept at suppressing his own emotions, and it was only the faintest pang of guilt that tickled his conscience. He looked at the young man, his expression equally cold.

"Has there been any activity from the Praetorians?" Dumbledore asked.

"She did not say, I am afraid. I suspect not, though." Dumbledore smiled darkly at this.

"Of course. Dear Bellatrix would never leave when there is fighting to do." Crouch almost cracked a smile, but seemed to violently suppress it.

Dumbledore sighed inwardly as the man maintained his icy silence. They remained like that for long moment.

"Do you wish you were there with them?" he asked gently, no trace of disdain at the idea. He half expected Crouch to ignore him, but instead the young man glared at him.

"What do you want me to say, Minister?"

"Do you think I would judge your answer, given all that I have done?" Dumbledore asked, wearily.

"Of course you would," Crouch snapped. "You would _never_ stoop to killing children. Of course not, not the pure and noble Albus Dumbledore."

"I serve the same man as you," Albus said. "I am just as guilty as he is." Crouch glared it him in contempt.

"You undermine him at every opportunity. You're always scheming and plotting against him. Don't think I don't know it!" Crouch was shouting now, his sudden anger surprising Albus. "In your heart, you will always see him as an enemy."

"I do not understand," Albus said slowly.

"Of course you don't. You will never understand. The Dark Lord is greater than all of us. The world bends to his will. Prophesy itself has blessed him. If foolish ideals and useless morals need to be set aside to achieve greatness, then who are we to judge?"

Dumbledore did not know how to respond. He did not realize that Crouch's fanaticism went so deep. "No man is infallible."

"I am not looking for a replacement father. Sigmund Freud was a doddering old crackpot who shoved muggle drugs up his nose. I am _loyal_, unlike you, and I will do whatever my master bids me. That is all I have to say to you, Minister." Crouch turned away from Albus, and they stayed like that, in brooding silence, for many long moments.

The fireplace roared to life. This time it was not Bellatrix Lestrange, though the man who did appear bore a remarkable resemblance to her. Sirius Black was a tall man, his elegant robes embroidered prominently with the Black Family crest. His long, wavy hair framed a rather pleasant face. He cast a quick, cold look at Crouch. Crouch, for his part, returned a spectacularly withering glare.

Albus stood to greet the man. Sirius looked at him blankly. His face was set into the expression of disdain and disgust that it often was when he did work in the service of the man who had murdered his best friend.

"The Emperor has agreed to discuss terms. He will be along momentarily."

"Very good, you have done well." Albus said, smiling gently at the man. Sirius looked at him wearily.

"You will instruct Lord Voldemort immediately," Albus said to Crouch curtly.

"Yes, go run along to daddy," Sirius said contemptuously while Albus shot him a pleading look.

"It would be a terrible shame if another student were to perish before the Dark Lord was informed," Crouch said, his face twisted into a mocking smile. "All because one useless blood-traitor couldn't hold his tongue." He emphasized the word _traitor_ most viciously.

Sirius glared at Crouch, his face twisted into rage. Crouch walked into the fireplace with a smug smile.

The fireplace flared to life immediately afterward, and the tallest man Albus had ever seen stepped out. Emperor Marius dwarfed the other two wizards, both of whom were not exactly short themselves, and looked down on them sternly. His two bodyguards, trained Praetorians, appeared behind him.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said coldly. His Latin accent was very faint, but Albus could discern it easily. Albus took a knee.

"Your Majesty," he said. The man laughed harshly.

"I see your master has trained you well." He peered down at Dumbledore. "Thanks to you and your young friend here we will all soon be kneeling. Does that make you happy, Albus Dumbledore?"

Albus did not respond as he returned to his feet. The man laughed softly, his rather high, reedy voice in contrast to his stature.

"All we ever used to hear from Britain was about the great and noble Albus Dumbledore who shits unicorns and pisses Phoenix tears." He paused, eying Albus and Sirius sympathetically. "It is the price of power, my friends. You either die or live to see yourself wallowing in the same filth as everybody else."

Albus smiled uneasily at the man. "I suppose we are not so different then."

He scowled at that, but nodded slowly. "I suppose we are indeed. In truth, I was prepared to sent in the Praetorians to deal with the mess, but Parliament overruled me. Weak, cowardly fools, the lot."

Dumbledore could not help but be impressed by Crouch's work. His predictions and insight regarding the Emperor and the Roman Ministry had been unerringly accurate. Did Voldemort fully realize the potential the young fanatic had?

"A difficult choice, to be sure," Albus said sympathetically. He looked down pointedly at the long sheet of parchment that lay on his desk. "I believe Sirius has discussed the terms with you?"

The man looked obstinately at Albus, his mouth set in a hard line. "I am afraid that you are operating under some mistaken assumptions, Minister Dumbledore." Emperor Marias suddenly pitched to the side out of the way of the curses cast by his bodyguards.

Albus reacted immediately, his wandless shield blocking the spell. He had his wand out before they could react, and the silent disarming spell separated one of them from his wand. The second fired off a curse, but Albus deflected it lazily. The Emperor had his wand out, but it was not his curse that struck Albus.

"Incarcarus Argentum!"

Sirius stared blankly as him, his grey eyes slack and unmoving, his wand pointing at his back. Cold, silver chains wrapped tightly around Albus, the enchanted metal cancelling any passive warding he employed.. The Emperor's disarming spell hit him, and his wand flew into the man's hand. He laughed coldly.

"The oldest trick in the book. I thought better of you." he said as he looked down at Albus with disdain. Albus sighed wearily, but did not speak.

The fireplace flared to life, and a tall, blond man stepped out. The Emperor smiled as he saw the Germanic Minister step from the fireplace.

"Ah, Minister Schicklgruber, it is good of you to finally join us." Gellert took one quick look at the man as he silently undid Albus' bindings. Sirius had already begun to sneak around behind the Emperor.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. It is good to see a plan come together. A great threat to our three great nations will be eliminated today." Gellert looked at Dumbledore in mock disdain.

"You did not really believe that madman could succeed, did you Albus?" the Emperor asked wearily. "It is such a shame you were forced to throw in with him. You cannot expect to avoid being condemned for it, no matter how understandable."

"Stupify!" The incantation was said by both Sirius and Gellert at the same time. The verbal incantation from two such talented Wizards made the spell highly potent, and the two Praetorians dropped to the ground unconscious.

"What is this?" the Emperor demanded as Sirius held his wand to the man's neck.

"This is history," Gellert said, his voice so full of mad conviction. "On this day we will finally complete the work that your ancestors have striven for for thousands of years without success. Today is the day that all of Europe is united into one." Gellert's own failure in that department went unmentioned.

The Emperor was frothing in rage. "This is impossible!"

"I'm afraid not, Your Majesty," Gellert said, taking a mocking bow. He was enjoying himself far too much. The years of imprisonment seemed to melt away from him. He looked down at the parchment and handed the Emperor a quill. "Do you wish to sign, or must I force you to?"

The Emperor hesitated too long, apparently.

"Crucio!" Gellert pointed his wand at the bound Praetorians, and both began to shriek and writhe on the ground. They clawed at their bindings, at each other, and at themselves. Bright scarlet droplets began to appear on the ground beside them. Gellert's blue eyes stared hard at the Emperor, his face full of malice.

The Emperor wrote his name out in a sloppy scrawl, his hands shaking. The quill broke, but mercifully, it was on the last letter. Gellert approached the desk and peered at it, his wand still held on the screaming men. He lifted the curse.

"That will do, I suppose. Your handwriting is terribly dreadful," he said, giving the Emperor a cruel stare.

"Where the hell am I?" Sirius Black demanded, his face full of confusion as Gellert lifted the Imperius Curse. "Albus?" Sirius' gaze fell upon Gellert. Albus saw him frown for a moment before realization dawned. "Is that – is that _Grindelwald?_"

The Emperor gaped, recognition dawning on his long face as well. Gellert's smile was that of a predator with its face full of blood after gorging itself on a particularly satisfying kill.


End file.
